Page 4 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

The more I ruminated about it, the more obsessed I became with their lives after my death. It was not a random obsession. My shrink confirmed what I already knew. It was PTSD.

When my mother died, I watched in horror as women circled my grieving father like hammerheads on a feeding frenzy. And when the wrong woman stepped in to take my mother’s place, the consequences were devastating.

I refused to let the same thing happen to Alex and my kids. I know it sounds insane, but the idea I’d buried in the darkest recesses of my brain became a priority as soon as the Angel of Death with her little pink umbrella showed up at my door.

I was going to spend my last remaining days on earth searching for the next Mrs. Dunn. I might not find her, but I would die trying.

PARTONE

WOMEN WITH CASSEROLES

ONE

twenty-six years before the funeral

I’ve had twenty-six years to contemplate the fact that a ripe old age might not be in the cards for me. But my mother was caught completely by surprise. She thought she still had half her life ahead of her when the doctor blindsided her with the diagnosis—hemophagocytic lymphohistiocytosis. They call it HLH because it’s impossible to pronounce. It’s also impossible to cure. But they don’t tell you that.

“There are new advances in chemotherapy every day,” Dr. Byrne told her. “They may not be the wonder drug we’re hoping for, Kate, but they can slow down the spread. They can buy you time.”

Time. That was the magic word. Time to impart more of her life skills to her teenage daughters, time to allow her husband to come to grips with his impending loss, time to savor the familiar warmth of her countless friends.

She knew that the ravages of chemotherapy could steal the very time it was supposed to deliver. But her doctor was optimistic, her 24/7-support group was deep and unwavering, and she knew that everyone at St. Cecilia’s parish would be praying for a miracle.

“I’ve decided to go ahead with the chemo,” she told us at dinner that snowy December night. Six months later, she told us how much she regretted that decision.

I remember that day vividly. It was the start of the summer between my junior and senior year in high school, and I was in the kitchen of our family restaurant cracking lobster claws for the lunch special.

It was a mindless job, which gave me the opportunity to use my brain to focus on something much more important—coming up with a killer essay for my college applications. Would it be better, I mused, to write about something global like the technology revolution, or should I stick to the tried and true—a personal challenge I’ve overcome, and how it shaped my?—

“Yo, Maggie, what the hell are you doing?”

I looked up. It was my sister Lizzie.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I said. “I’m prepping for Chef Tommy.”

“Sure you are. I’m tempted to tell Grandpa Mike to change the blackboard from creamy lobster bisque to extra crunchy, but I don’t want to spend the whole day giving the Heimlich maneuver to people who are choking on soup.”

She reached down into the bowl of lobster meat I’d been filling and started picking out the shells I’d been absentmindedly tossing in.

“Sorry. I was deep in thought.”

“You daydreaming about Van again?” Lizzie asked.

“No. MyVantasiesare strictly a bedtime thing. I was trying to work out an idea for a college essay.”

“Well, you better work fast. Applications are due by December thirty-first, and—oh my God—it’s June twenty-fourth already. You’re running out of time!”

Lizzie is my Irish twin, born 314 days after me. She’s also my fiercest competitor, my biggest pain in the ass, and my dearest friend. I love her beyond words, which is appropriate since I hardly ever come right out and say it. She, in turn, expresses her affection for me by busting my chops on a regular basis.

She clutched her throat with both hands and began to gag. “I can feel the pressure building. If only you had been elected president of next year’s senior class. Oh, wait—you were,” she said, relaxing the choke hold. “Problem solved.”

“You know how many class presidents apply to college?” I said, picking out the last of the rogue shells. “I’m not that unique.”

“You could be if you wrote about how you miraculously managed to get elected despite living your entire life in your younger sister’s shadow.”

I was working on a comeback line when we both heard the throaty growl of the Harley Electra Glide as it barreled up Pine Street.

“Here comes Dad,” I said.

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