I stare at the table with the blue top. Will they put a tablecloth on it at the wedding? I try to focus, imagining what the round table with the blue top would look like if it were covered with an immaculate white tablecloth. I try desperately to avoid Dragoș's gaze, but I feel him staring at me insistently. He's talking to me, but the words reach my ears as if through water, distorted and muffled.

I finally make out:
– What did the doctor say?

I try to think of how to phrase it so it doesn't sound dramatic, but my mind is clearly not on my side. I answer curtly:
– That I have cancer.

The dining room starts to spin slightly before my eyes. The girl from the hotel, who is helping us choose the wedding menu, has gone pale. This is exactly the kind of drama I didn't want to experience. Not for the third time.

When I had cancer in my left breast at 24, I didn't understand anything that happened to me. I didn't perceive the danger. Chemotherapy destroyed me, I hated myself when I was bald – myself and everyone around me, for that matter. But I wasn't afraid.

When I had the second one, in my right breast, 12 years later, I already had a child and that's when I learned fear. Total panic that I was going to die and didn't know what would happen to my child. Terror that he would be scared of me during treatment.

Now all the fear has returned, I feel it shrinking my stomach with a burning sensation and nausea. I feel the surgery starting to hurt instantly. My double mastectomy is fresh, less than a month old. I stubbornly wanted to do it, to start my second chance at love in life correctly – so the man would know what he was marrying.

But the third breast cancer was never part of the script. Dragoș looks at me, frozen. I pull myself together, straighten my back and tell the girl who is with us:
– No fish, but definitely sarmale, there's no wedding without sarmale.

I sense her pity when she asks:
– With peppers and polenta?

I enormously appreciate that she's agreed to play the game of "actually, nothing happened." I stand up and say:
– Then everything is agreed, send us the quote and we'll pay the deposit in three days!

Dragoș follows me. I know he doesn't know what to say. I don't know what to say either. I get in the car and answer the unspoken question:
– To the hospital!

We get there in 10 minutes. I know the way with my eyes closed, I head towards the long hallway that leads to the lab reception. I give my name and receive the paper. I sign and, as if through that signature I let all the strength out of me, I sit down.

I read carefully. I don't understand everything, but I understand enough. In the last 14 years, I've learned so much medicine that I could do it as a second degree. I take a photo and send it to my doctor on WhatsApp. She calls me immediately, she knew the results were coming today. I skip greetings and politeness and ask her directly:
– What are the chances?

She doesn't spare me, we've never played that game between us.
– 50/50. If you have metastases: two years. If not, we'll see!

I've never understood why doctors think "We'll see!" could ever calm anyone down. But I know that more isn't possible today, I've gained the exercise of uncertainty. I ask her:
– And what do I do now?
– PET-CT scan to see if you have metastases. You need to start chemo as soon as possible anyway.

The pressure is too great and, moreover, even if I see an IV on TV, nausea starts to turn my stomach. I'm almost sure I'm going to vomit. I stand up and take a deep breath.
– Will you make the PET-CT appointment or should I?
– I will, you need a file. I'll call you tomorrow with a date.

I sit back down on the chair and let my tense shoulders fall beside my body. I realize that Dragoș is there and I look at him. He takes me in his arms and, finally, tears start to burst from my eyes, accompanied by sobs. I stop abruptly and pull away from the embrace. I look at him directly and ask:
– What do we do about the wedding?

He doesn't hesitate for a second.
– We move forward.

The tears continue to flow down my face. I don't want to go home for my child to see me like this.

Suddenly I remember I have a fitting for my wedding dress. I've wanted so much to get to this seamstress and it's so hard to find a fitting appointment that any missed one is a small disaster. I pull myself together and say:
– Let's go to the dress!

He looks at me in surprise, but says nothing. He just stands up and we both walk to the car on autopilot. Mrs. Gabi is, as always, busy. She rushes me to undress and pulls the wedding dress project in lilac French lace over me. It's gorgeous.
– Should we close the back today? she asks me.

My strength has reached its limit. I start sobbing and shouting through hiccups:
– No, because I have cancer again and I'll do chemo and my belly will swell and I won't fit in it anymore!

Mrs. Gabi remains professional and composed. She doesn't look at me and the mascara running in generous streaks down my face. She takes a few pins in her mouth and starts to baste.

Finally, she looks at me:
– No worries, we'll adjust with lace! There's no belly that can't be hidden with quality lace!

I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I look at her dumbfounded, but she's serious to the tips of her nails. She takes all the measurements she needs and hands me the dress I came in. Only when leaving does she look into my eyes and I feel the warmth in her voice:
– No worries! We'll adjust everything with lace!

Ten days later, I'm sitting with the PET-CT file on a chair in front of the doctor there. I get the delicious question:
– What is your medical history?

I refrain from the answer on the tip of my tongue – "How much time do you have?" – and start listing my cancers and their characteristics. I'm much calmer. Not that I've gotten used to the thought, but today is exactly my birthday.

I'm turning 39 and I received a superb cake, which I can't taste until tonight, but still, I don't start crying while telling the story. I even give additional explanations:
– My request is to give me the results as quickly as possible. Whatever they are, I need to do chemo and in exactly 15 days I'm a bride. I need to do chemo early enough that I won't be sick at the wedding, but also close enough to the event that I can still throw the bouquet and not my bun.

I try to make light of it, but the woman in front of me doesn't really appreciate my humor. I'm sure she knows as well as I do that after the first chemo session I have a maximum of 10 days until I'll be bald again. Her answer, however, leaves me speechless:
– With that medical file, did anyone still want to marry you?

I choose to believe she's just continuing my joking spirit and answer with a smile:
– I'll introduce him when we come out, he's waiting in the hall outside!

PET-CT takes a whole day. It's not painful, but it's necessary for the contrast substance to stay in the body until it becomes visible. I wait calmly. I'm annoyed that I can't answer phone calls, only messages. Many close ones tell me "Happy birthday" and that's exactly the wish I need as often as possible today.

The hours pass one after another, other patients pass by me. It's already close to closing time and I'm the last one left. They scanned my body five hours ago, but they still haven't let me leave. And I'm so hungry I want to scream. The doctor appears with the file. She smiles at me.
– I have a gift for your birthday! And for the wedding!

I look at her full of hope and see her nod.
– Zero metastases!

Without thinking, I jump on her neck:
– Thank you! Thank you so much!

I leave jumping with joy and find Dragoș in the waiting room. After I came out of the machine, he wasn't allowed to stay with me anymore because both I and everyone around me were heavily irradiated. I give him the good news and see his face and eyes light up. He takes my hand and we leave with the smile of winners from the hospital with the smell of illness and death.

I won't tell about chemo. I don't see why anyone would ever want to experience that, even just in their mind's eye. I don't want to write about the wedding either. It was very beautiful. I felt loved and happy alongside the important people in my life. I drank tequila as if the end of the world was coming. I danced with gusto, throwing the lilac French lace train over my shoulder with a gesture more like a bear than a princess, but I never pretended this was any modern fairy tale.

It's four in the morning and I'm sitting in the bathtub of the hotel room. Dragoș fell asleep in bed, he was dead tired. I'm shivering, but I'm glad the wedding ended well and that I had hair, that I didn't faint, that I didn't vomit. It's the warmest night of the year and my teeth are chattering in my mouth at such an alert rhythm that I'm afraid they'll break. I think for a moment about calling an ambulance, but it's hard for me to get out of the tub. I let some hot water run over me and, suddenly, I start laughing. I think that I went from ball to hospital and back.

And with that laugh I gather my strength and tell myself that still, the ball is better, so I put on my thick robe and go to bed.