No Cure for Tomorrow

No Cure for Tomorrow

A compelling journey of taking risks with love and medicine — with no promise of tomorrow

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Chapter 1

She kissed him goodbye knowing he would never remember tomorrow.

That moment will forever ring in me.

I was the one to operate on him — having his life and fate in my hands.

I am Dr. Finley — and that man was my patient, my secret love, and the one who changed everything.

My team and I were working on a radical new trial to save brain-cancer patients in their last stages. Years of blood, sweat, and tears — sacrificing dating and dancing, replaced with research and testing, tied to countless tears over cold meals and cheap bottles of wine.

It was always a sacrifice I willingly made. When kids my age were playing dolls — feeding and changing them and dreaming of being mothers — my dolls had concussions, broken bones, and brain traumas I had to operate on.

Being a physician became the core of my life. Every win brought many failures before it, but I kept pushing. My determination to fix the dying became my obsession.

Our latest drug was designed to fix the diseased parts of the brain. Our team spent many hours having medical boards close doors in our faces, telling us we were crazy and that it could never be done. So many patients just didn’t fit the right criteria, and we watched countless people slip away — families losing hope as their loved ones faded.

There were risky side effects, ones some found too hard to accept. For the treatment to work, it had to reach the part of the brain that controlled short-term memory while destroying the cancerous tissue in the affected area. By the time the trial ended, patients might live longer but slowly start to have memory loss — that of a patient with Alzheimer’s. The ethics of quality of life always came into play.

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Chapter 2

The summer of last year seemed like any other day.

I woke up early and headed to the hospital, retreating to what I jokingly called the “dungeon” — my medical lab in the basement where we kept our latest testing equipment and trial candidates. We were working on new compatibility tests when a file appeared on my desk: Michael Drisdale, 34. His type of brain cancer was a perfect fit for the trial.

It was a brisk fall morning by the time I met him, the leaves already losing their vibrancy and gathering on the earth’s floor. I was reading over Michael’s file one final time before his consultation. Traffic had been a nightmare, my toast was burnt, and my coffee had gone cold. I just wanted the day to be over before it had really begun. I had to remind myself why I do what I do — to help save patients who were deemed unsavable; to prove that this trial could work, that it could give people like Michael another chance.

My thoughts were interrupted by a sturdy knock on my office door. My receptionist introduced my next appointment, and Michael walked in. We greeted each other with a firm handshake and a polite gesture to sit. He was slightly taller than average, with dusty hair, deep chestnut eyes, and rugged good looks. I paused longer than I should have, caught off guard by his presence, though I tried to hide it. My usually composed, professional demeanor felt awkward and a little shaky.

Michael had a way of making the hardest conversations seem bearable. As I explained the procedures, the risks, and the uncertain outcomes, he handled it all with an almost casual grace.

“Good,” he joked lightly, “then I won’t remember how bad the hospital food is anyway.”

We both chuckled, but deep down, I wondered how he truly felt. Did he use humor to shield himself from fear? Or was he really that full of life, even now? I became enthralled by his energy — his wit, his stories from long hauls driving across Montana in the springtime, his thirst for adventure despite everything.

We would spend hours talking before procedures. I’d hold his hand, and somehow, he’d end up reassuring me instead of the other way around. I started to look forward to the moments when our eyes met, to the calm that came over me when I listened to his heart through my stethoscope.

When I went home at night, I’d have these vivid dreams — dreams where Michael pulled through and we spent quiet mornings together, side by side in each other’s arms. I’d wake up and scold myself for it. What was I doing, entertaining these thoughts as a professional? He didn’t need a lover; he needed a doctor. But no matter how hard I tried, those thoughts lingered.

As the months went on, it became harder to ignore.

His flirtations grew softer but more intentional — a look held too long, a pause in his voice that made my heart skip.

My hands trembled when I changed a bandage or checked his pulse, and the sound of his heartbeat seemed to echo through me.

I was beginning to fall, and I knew it.

I felt a connection was brewing, and I knew Michael did too. Things between us changed one afternoon outside the hospital. The trials were going well; we were approaching the final stages of his treatment. The clouds turned a dark grey that afternoon in November. My thoughts were heavy lately at how close Michael and I had become, with such a deep connection and understanding of each other. Suddenly, rain started to fall gently on our faces. At first, we still locked eyes and smiled through it, but then it picked up. I gasped, and Michael rushed over and pulled me from under the rain to a rooftop overhang for shelter.

I could feel my breath on his — our rhythmic sounds like that of a medical machine. Our eyes locked again, this time more intense. I felt this rush all through my body, this warm tingle, and with that, Michael pulled me in close, his hands brushing my wet hair, and kissed me softly — the gentle taste of his lips with a hint of rain. We kissed more intensely and held each other closely for what felt like a pleasant eternity.

From then on, we began stealing moments in the office — a playful pull, a subtle touch, a shared look when no one was watching. I was making memories with a wonderful man — a man I wasn’t supposed to love, and one who might never stay.

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Chapter 3

We were nearing the final days before his procedure. I tried to remain calm and professional while discussing the process and the risks but worry overwhelmed me. I dreaded the thought that he might wake up not remembering us — not knowing the moments we had shared.

When I told him my fears, he took my hand gently and said, “There’s no way I’ll forget the most brilliant, kind, and beautiful woman in the world.” He smiled softly. “We’ll grow old together. We’ll make medical history.”

And with that, he kissed me lovingly on the forehead. That night, we decided to stay together. My body trembled — not from fear but from the overwhelming need to feel his warmth, to hold him close. It was the most beautiful and magical night. When our love was spent, we lay in each other’s arms, our breaths in rhythm.

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Chapter 4

Spending time reasoning with Micheal was how I thought it would go. Micheal reminding me that the other options wouldn’t work, that he believed in me, that he believed in the treatment. Reassuring me and stealing in kisses and hugs as I cried into his embrace.

The day of the procedure was a solemn day for me. I was smiling, doing my best to be a professional physician for my patient while my colleagues were by my side, but inside I was crumbling. I scrubbed and gowned up. The team was all there, going over final discussions. Team members were there to put Micheal into anesthesia. A firm squeeze and a wink, and Micheal drifted off in my care.

I took a deep breath and went into surgeon mode. Every cut with the scalpel, every region of the brain I operated on, I did with care and heavy thought. This was my guy — the man I now knew I loved — and I wasn’t going to just let him slip away. Then there came a moment where I had to make a decision: which med to add with the main injection. I went over it in my head mentally — all my work, efforts, and experience. I used the skills of a professional; my hands worked clean and precise.

I watched the meds being injected into his skin and saw the neuropathways in his brain fire up. I suddenly saw it all, what I needed to do, as if God came down and led me through my hands. We had done it — science had done it — and miracles were made that day on the operating table.

I stitched him up with care and watched as he was wheeled off to recovery in ICU, giving him a small wave goodbye and, in my thoughts, a kiss, with hopes I’d see him later.

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Chapter 5

The silence was brutal, the ticking of the clock. My heart was heavy with anticipation. Did this work? Would Micheal and I be lying by a roaring fire in December’s snowy embrace? Did time stand still for us?

I slowly opened the heavy ICU room door. Micheal was awake. He looked so small and innocent in the hospital bed then. His tube had been removed, and I walked over with a nervous, cautious stride. I cleared my throat enough to ask him how he was doing. He took a pause in that moment, seeing his eyes flutter as if searching for the words. It felt like an eternity, even if it was really just a brief moment in theory, waiting for Micheal’s response.

He focused on me and started to crack a smile, cleared his throat, and said,

“Well, Doc, guess no hope for forgetting that awful meatloaf I had yesterday — so much for forgetting hospital food.”

He let out a laugh. In that moment, all my anxiety and tenseness relaxed. He had remembered. He was okay. He was back.

I was alone with him in that moment. I sat at his bedside and held his hand. I couldn’t resist and leaned in for a soft kiss, trying not to hurt him. I felt the happiest I had ever felt. Sudden dreams of life between us entered my mind. We went on for a few moments talking about all our plans.

He wanted to sail with me on a boat, drink coffee in Paris under the stars, lie on sandy beaches getting our toes set in the cold sand, and swim in the glistening night waters of the Caribbean Sea. We carried on until Micheal had to rest. I kissed his forehead and told him to rest. Realizing I had not eaten all day, I decided to step out, not before saying goodbye.

“Goodbye, Dr. Finley,” he smiled. “I’ll see you soon.”

I strolled down the hospital hallway to the elevator feeling victorious. Along the way, fellow staff congratulated me on my surgery’s success. Thoughts of a greasy cheeseburger and fries were suddenly interrupted.

Just then, the sharp chime of a Code Blue echoed through the halls. My instinct was panic — to run to Micheal, telling myself he was fine, that this couldn’t be him. I dashed out of line and flew down the stairs as fast as I could, overwhelmed with terror. Staff were everywhere around his room, machines going, people shouting while doing all the life-saving measures.

I screamed for them to let me in. They were doing CPR. It was like watching from outside my body — watching Micheal’s life, our plans, hopes, and dreams slip beneath my fingertips. And then it happened, that moment, that sound — the sound you dread, the noise you never get used to — the flatline.

I shrieked the loudest scream my body could take.

“Micheal, no! Do not leave!”

I grabbed the ambu-bag and fought my hardest, every squeeze, the paddles — it was no use. My Micheal was gone.

The moments after that were a blur. Time stood still while my heart shattered and ached, like ripped pieces of my soul were taken out from my gut.

I stayed in a daze for a while, grasping at the realization of all that I had and then I lost. Time slipped in and out like the consciousness of a patient. My heart was heavy and full of despair for a long time after. I didn’t know how, or if, I could ever be a doctor and surgeon again, as some cuts are just too wide and too deep and the hemorrhaging of emotions just comes over you. I also didn’t know if I’d ever love again or have faith in humanity.

I lost something that day at the ICU.

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Epilogue

Years have since passed since losing Micheal. He taught me to believe in myself and not to give up — to find joy in laughter and in pure love.

I still work in the field and have since made some truly innovative steps in this crazy world of oncology and trying to cure brain cancer. When I hear a gentleman’s laughter or think back on his warm, funny ways, I think of him. For those brief moments we had after the surgery, we had a tiny glimpse of our future — and oh, what a future we would have held.

I know life throws curveballs. In medicine, we’re taught that on our first day — and by the time we’re in practice, we think we know everything there is to know about medicine. But Micheal taught me love and beauty.

Though there is no cure for tomorrow and no guarantee for today, would I have changed a thing for you, for us?

No.

Love conquered anyway.

The End