My first chemotherapy session was just a little over seven hours - I was told to expect that, the first time around, and was told that they'd probably never be over eight hours - except maybe the weeks I need a CT scan - but never to expect anything under five. I spent seven hours and fifteen minutes in a comfortable chair dozing, eating what I could, daydreaming and reading in a small, bright, private room while my mother and Claudia sat as sentries near me.

When we first arrived at the Sidney Kimmel Comprehensive Cancer Center at Johns Hopkins, I was not surprised when Claudia hopped out of the car and grabbed our bag full of snacks and books and my iPad filled with movies. I was not surprised when she reached out and squeezed my hand and then kept hers in mine. What did surprise me was when my mother reached out and took my other hand.

It took everything in me not to shake it off.

Claudia was fine. Claudia has been affectionate and a comfort for me for over two years now. But my mother voluntarily touching me like that, and the team being around acting almost as if I did nothing wrong keeping Charlie from Derek, and Derek himself with his cheerful, optimistic attitude and not a trace of anger towards me at all anymore - they're all making me feel like I've got one foot in the grave already. And when I'm not feeling that way, I'm feeling selfish - selfish for soaking up their kindness when I don't feel like I deserve it.

Because the stark reality is that if I had just shown up here a week ago, with no cancer and only Charlie, I wouldn't be getting daily visitors bearing smiles and hugs and treats every damned day.

I know I'm fighting dirty when I throw their optimism back in their faces. They all try to pretend that it doesn't bother them, but they aren't fooling me. I see the hurt in Derek's face when he talks like I'm going to come through this just fine and I answer back in a way that reminds him that nothing is certain. It's not that I don't believe I can survive this; I just need him to remember it's not a certainty. I need him to be making life decisions for himself, whether I'm here or not.

The one phrase I've grown tired of hearing to the point of weariness in the past couple of weeks is, "It's going to be okay."

I've heard this every day for over two weeks now, sometimes multiple times a day from different people. I bite my tongue, but there's only one question I want to fire back, but the word I emphasize is often different.

"How do you fucking know?"

"How do you fucking know?"

"How do you fucking know?"

My thoughts were sad when my mother and Claudia walked me into the center. Every step towards my private treatment room, I was thinking about how Savannah had probably met Charlie by now. The thought broke my heart even though I accepted it was necessary, that it was exactly what I wanted - Derek living his life on his own path, a path that had nothing to do with me and could include Charlie.

I'd elected to not get an IV port surgically placed in me. I was told I had good veins and as long as that held true, the choice was mine. I considered it, but the fact is that I have quite enough scars on my body, and the thought of two more incision scars on my chest, however small, is entirely unappealing.

A nurse came into my room, and once again went over the medication I'd be taking home with me, and Claudia listened intently while my mother sat stiffly in the chair next to me, back to a version of herself I recognized. I was given an Ativan to relax me, hooked up to monitors, my oncologist stopped by to check in, and twenty minutes after that, the party officially got started. The nurse found a good vein on the back of my hand and the first part of my cocktail for the day - Mechlorethamine - began its slow drip into my system. Nausea, low blood count, hair loss, infertility, I thought, remembering the side effects of this particular drug, one of three I'd receive that day.

I stared at the tubing and all I could think about was the thirty minutes I'd spent on one website that had me absolutely convinced that chemotherapy was going to kill me faster than my cancer. I'm a realist and I closed the window to that website after reading two articles that had my heart racing. I did the medical research again and studied the numbers, and I played the odds. Sixty-five percent survival rate is nothing to turn away from. Still, I couldn't help the voice in the back of my head wondering if all of those drugs were going to get the best of me before I could even hope to get better, while I'm blissed out on Ativan and none the wiser.

All of this is a metaphorically tough pill to swallow, considering that for the most part I don't even like to take so much as aspirin.

"When you were three years old and we lived in Egypt, you went stumbling down some concrete steps and split your chin open," my mother said, interrupting me from my thoughts.

I turned to look at her and she took my free hand in hers. "There was so much blood and I rushed you to the closest clinic. It was the first time I'd had to take you to a doctor when it wasn't a regular check up."

I stared at her eyes that were shining with unshed tears. "When we got there, the nurse asked me questions in Arabic that I didn't totally understand and couldn't really answer. And, you, Emily, sat up and wiped your tears. You held the ice pack I'd given you on your chin, and answered her questions in perfectly fluent Arabic. Then you put your head against my shoulder and whispered, 'She wanted to know if I hit my head anywhere else.' I didn't even know you could speak Arabic that well yet; I'm not even sure you knew it until then. But it was the first time I realized how completely amazing you are. And I'm sure you'll knock me off my feet again through all of this."

I squeezed my mother's hand and smiled softly at her, giving back what I could at her unfamiliar praise and softness. I closed my eyes. If I'd tried to speak then, the tears would have started, and I didn't think I'd be able to staunch the flow.

The seven hours passed relatively quickly, considering. I sent Derek a text on the way home to let him know we were on our way; he texted back that he and Charlie were already at the house and dinner was on the stove - both statements surprised me.

Now it's late evening, my mother is gone, and Claudia has taken Charlie over to the park to play before his bath.

Derek sits at my kitchen table with me as I pull the pill bottles out of a bag. "How come you were back here so early?" I finally have the opportunity to ask.

"Savannah got called into work and she chose to go. She never even met Charlie; she was gone before we got back to the house."

I can hear the bitterness, anger and sadness in his voice. I'm tired. My nausea is barely being held at bay with the Zofran I was given before I left the hospital, and the last drug I received today causes fatigue, and I'm feeling it keenly.

I sit up straighter to try and combat my sleepiness for a little longer. A slight thrill goes through me that Savannah had not yet met Charlie, and then I mentally slap myself for that thought. "She's probably very scared and nervous, Derek. Don't judge her too harshly for how she's reacting to this right now. It's been less than a week."

Derek just stares at me and I can't read his expression. I look down and pull the pill sorter closer to me; it's a large contraption to help me organize the multiple drugs I need to take and make sure I take them at precisely the right time. Derek pulls the pill bottles towards him. "What are all of these?" he asks, changing the topic.

"An entirely fucked up game of chasing tail," I reply.

He laughs lightly and raises an eyebrow.

I point at the bottles while I talk in a detached voice, "Prednisone, for anti-inflammatory purposes, and it also helps fight any allergic reactions to the chemotherapy. They say it can combat the nausea that is caused by chemotherapy, but it can also cause nausea on its own. Zantac, to fight the heartburn that is often caused by Prednisone. Zofran, so I don't puke up whatever I manage to get down. Colase, a stool softener, so I can take a crap after whatever it is I'm able to keep down, because pretty much everything that's going into my system these days causes constipation. Ativan, so I can sleep because the Prednisone can cause insomnia, and also so I'm not so anxious; that's an as-needed one. Septra, which I only need to take on weekends, to prevent infection that can come from long-term Prednisone use. I'll only probably need the Zofran on odd weeks. The even weeks are different drugs that don't cause nausea; I'll only be combating a forty-eight hour raging fever then."

I stop pointing and glance at Derek. He has one tear slowly making its way down his cheek. It's the first time I've seen him cry in all of this mess since the day I told him about Charlie. He clears his throat when I look at him and pulls the pill sorter his way. "Well," he says, "Let's get these in the right places."

I rest my chin in my hand and watch him carefully read the labels and get pills in the correct slots. I feel like I should say something, something bigger than "Thank you," - for being here, for making dinner, for taking care of Charlie and loving him unconditionally and absolutely from the moment they first met - but my brain is foggy and I can't come up with the words.

The next thing I'm aware of is a feeling of weightlessness and a warmth around me. I struggle to open my eyes as I feel my body carried and then placed on a soft surface. Then there are warm, gentle hands under my shirt, and I feel the hooks on my bra release. That wakes me a little. "What are you doing?" I mumble.

"Making sure you're comfortable," Derek replies.

His hand reaches up the sleeve of my t-shirt and pulls one bra strap down and off my arm, then repeats the process with the other arm, finally pulling my bra out through my shirt sleeve. My eyes are barely open and the only sensation I'm aware of are his fingers on my skin.

He helps me lay back on the pillow and covers me up. "You should go home and talk to her," I mumble.

"I will. After Charlie goes to bed tonight. Claudia and I have got this, Emily. Just sleep."

I feel his lips press gently against my forehead, and sigh. I should be pushing him away physically and emotionally, but I can't find the energy in the moment.

When Claudia returns from the park with Charlie, I tell her to take an hour to herself, that I'll handle bath time and bedtime. She looks thankful.

Charlie brings me two books to read to him that night: Make Way for Ducklings and My Mommy Has Cancer.

It's not a pleasant book with a happy ending; it's an age-appropriate, factual account of what happens during chemotherapy. I read to him about how the mommy in the book is sick with a cold and it turns out the cold's name is cancer. I read about the mommy in the book losing her hair, sleeping a lot, throwing up. I read about how even when the mommy is sick or sleeping a lot, she loves her children. I get to the last page and flip it over, looking for the resolution - the mommy getting better, the mommy's hair growing back, but there is no resolution. The story simply ends with a bald woman looking tired and hugging her children close.

Even Charlie's little book leaves me in limbo, wondering what the future holds.

Charlie turns to look at me. "Again, Daddy?" he asks.

I manage a smile through the huge lump in my throat and shake my head. "Tomorrow. It's past your bedtime."

He's agreeable to that. He gets into his little bed, and I tuck him in. I give him a kiss on his forehead and each cheek. "I'll be back tomorrow morning right around the time you wake up," I tell him, because I will.

I've had many epiphanies on this day that are all rattling around in my head.

I need to call and spade and spade here - I've been in the BAU office for about eight hours since nearly a week ago, and I'm on a leave of absence whether I've officially declared that or not. I have no intention of returning to work tomorrow. I can't leave a twenty-three year old in charge of a toddler and Emily when she might be suffering from the side-effects of chemotherapy. I need to call Hotch.

I need to call my mother, and I need to talk to Savannah. But first, I need to make a stop.

I knock on Claudia's bedroom door to let her know I'm leaving, and tell her that I'll be back tomorrow morning around seven. I make her promise to call me if she needs anything at all.

"Absolutely," she says.

"Is he always so agreeable?"

Claudia smiles. "Charlie? I've got six younger siblings, Mr. Morgan, and I've never seen a more flexible two year old. Aside from the first couple of months of his life, while he had colic and Emily learned to relax a little, he's always been like that."

I smile slightly and nod at her. "Call me Derek, please."

I take a peek into Emily's room and find her sleeping soundly, then I make my way out of her house, hop in my car, and start my drive to Rossi's house.

There's little traffic and I pull up to his well-lit house just thirty-five minutes later. He's standing in his front doorway when I make my way up the front steps. "I saw you pull in. How did Emily's chemotherapy go?" he asks.

"She seems okay. Tired, but okay." I follow him into his kitchen and he asks if I want a drink. I shake my head. "You had a daughter you never knew about. What would you have done if her mother had called you when she found out she was pregnant?"

Dave leans against his kitchen counter and sighs, taking a swig of his drink. "I was wondering when I'd see you and you'd ask that question. The sad answer is that I probably wouldn't have gone, back then. I would have been great at birthday cards and writing checks, but I would have stayed put. And that's why she didn't call me to tell me, because she didn't want that disappointment."

I look at him and he voices what I've already been thinking since the moment in Emily's kitchen a couple hours before, when she encouraged me to talk to Savannah and give her a chance. Dave looks into the bottom of his glass while he talks. "In the years I've known Emily, I've seen her sacrifice her own safety so Reid wasn't hurt, I've seen her sacrifice her life with Doyle so we all wouldn't be hurt. If I had to guess, I think the two of you were probably getting closer that year after she came back from Paris and she cut bait and swam away because she couldn't handle it. Emily didn't call you when she found out she was pregnant for the opposite reason I wasn't called; Emily knew you'd be on the next flight out without hesitation and it scared the ever loving crap out of her, what that could possibly look like," Rossi says.

I nod and blink back tears. I know he's right. "She doesn't want anyone," I say.

Rossi shakes his head. "No, she doesn't want to believe she wants or needs anyone because it scares her. And that woman is on the brink of blowing a gasket with all of us stopping by, and accepting the situation as it is with no blame, and caring about her."

I raise my eyebrows. "Do you think everyone should back off?"

Rossi smiles and shakes his head. "No. Emily needs to a blow a gasket before she can get to the other side, where she feels like she deserves all of us, don't you think?"

I think and nod again. "Thank you. I need to get home and talk to Savannah."

"How are things going there?" he asks.

"Not well, but I need to get to the other side, too," is my cryptic response. But I look at Rossi's sympathetic face and realize I'm not cryptic at all.

When I get home, I find Savannah in our bed, blindly staring at the TV, her eyes puffy from crying. I lean against the wall in the bedroom and put my hands in my pockets.

"There was an emergency and they needed me," she implores.

I shake my head at her softly. "I'm not saying there wasn't an emergency, but please don't tell me it could only be you. Actually, it doesn't matter if that's, true, too. I don't want to fight. I realized two things today. The first is that if you had an ex - and I use that term loosely because I wouldn't consider Emily an ex, but if she was - if you had an ex who needed help through cancer, I'd probably be pretty pissed and jealous and concerned when you went to help him. Because I didn't understand cancer or chemotherapy. But you do. You did an oncology rotation, I remember you talking about it. You know how this all goes. Knowing what I know now, and it's only the tip of the iceberg compared to what's coming, I wouldn't deny you helping out an ex who needed you, no matter who he was to you before. I couldn't."

There are fresh tears rolling down her cheeks, and she opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. "I'm not judging how you feel, or saying it's wrong, but I can't only minimally see Emily right now, and I know you can't handle that. And, Savannah, no matter how much I love you, I can't live with you when I know that the only way you could truly live with me and Charlie is if Emily isn't in the picture, if she dies."

Savannah sobs with her hands in her face and I walk to the closet to retrieve a duffel bag larger than my go bag. I randomly pack things with no rhyme or reason, gently, while she watches from between her fingers.

"Are you going back to her house?" she finally asks when my bag is nearly filled.

I shake my head softly. "To the rental in Manasses for now. When things have settled down a bit, we can talk, about this house and what we do next."

I zip up my bag and sit on the edge of the bed near her hip. I turn my head so I'm facing her. "This is no one's fault, Savannah. It just is. I have a son, and I have a very good friend who is his mother, and they both need me right now, and you can't find a way that's comfortable for you to fit into that picture. I don't blame you. You need to take care of yourself, and I need to take care of me."

I take her hand in mine and kiss the back of it, kiss the skin that has been so familiar to me for two years. I don't regret the past two years, not by a long shot, and I'll miss her.

She has a hard time letting go of my hand when I stand, but finally releases me. I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder. I don't look back when I hit the doorway.

It's nearly ten-thirty when I reach the small house in Manasses, but it's an hour earlier in Chicago. I throw my bag down on the floor in the small living space and flop onto the couch. I dial my mom, my tears starting as soon as I hear the phone ringing. When she answers, I'm a mess. "Mama," I whisper, feeling comforted and ridiculous when my childhood name for her slips past my lips.