Page 9 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

My father calls it Irish grit. Mom said it was a gift. Lizzie has a different take. She says, “The only reason everything works out exactly the way Maggie wants is because she’s an obsessively compulsive micromanaging control freak.”

Harsh. But not without merit.

This time was different. I knew from the look in my mother’s eyes that this would not be something I could fix. I didn’t know exactly what she’d say next, but I knew that this picnic in the park would not have a happy ending.

How strong was I?

“Very,” I lied, my mouth dry, my breathing shallow.

“And I’m stronger than Maggie,” Lizzie said. “Ask anybody.”

Mom smiled. She’d always been so proud of Lizzie’s bravado. She took a deep breath. “It’s not working,” she said.

“What?” Lizzie said. “What’s not working?”

“The transfusions, the new chemo, the brilliant doctors... hundreds of people praying for me... nothing is working.”

“Don’t give up,” Lizzie said. “It’s only been a few months. The next round of transfusions is going to do it.”

“There is no next round. This past one was a Hail Mary. It didn’t work, and there’s nothing left to try. Dr. Byrne had a long talk with me yesterday. I’m out of options... and I’m almost out of time.”

“I don’t understand. You seem so healthy,” Lizzie said, her fists clenched, her body taut, determined to reverse Mom’s news with irrefutable logic. “You’re baking bread. You’re driving the car. You look fantastic.”

“It’s all smoke and mirrors. Dr. Byrne put together some kind of concoction with vitamin B-12, antioxidants, and God knows what else, and Marjorie Demmick came over this morning, gave me a shot in the ass, touched up the outside with a little blush, added some pink lipstick, and presto change-o, I look like a million bucks. But Maggie was on the right track. The Mustang won’t turn into a pumpkin, but by tomorrow morning I’ll look like two cents.”

I felt the tears welling up. “Why would you do this?” I said. “This whole... charade? Why did you get our hopes up?”

“I made a big mistake.” She reached across the blanket and put one hand on my knee, the other on Lizzie’s arm. “I never should have put myself through all those medical procedures hoping for a miracle. I should have spent these past six months with you. I can’t get any of that precious time back, so I asked Dr. Byrne if there was anything he could do to give me one more joyful day with my daughters. This was supposed to be it, but you caught me. I am so, so sorry. I wasn’t trying to get your hopes up. I was trying to give you one last final happy memory.”

“Dad came into the restaurant all excited this morning,” I said. “He was going on like you’d turned the corner. He really thinks you’re getting better, doesn’t he?”

Mom nodded. “Your father is the world’s worst poker player. If I told him the truth, you’d have read it in his face, and I wanted one last sunny afternoon with you before you found out. I’ll tell him tonight. The big man is going to crumble. He’s going to need you to help him get through this.” She shook her head. “No, it’s more than that. You’re all going to need to help each other.”

Lizzie got to her feet. “But first I need a group hug.”

We helped Mom get up, and the three of us embraced for a solid minute. No tears, just silence, each of us wrestling with her own thoughts.

“I’m writing you each a letter,” my mother said when we finally let go. She lowered herself to the blanket, and Lizzie and I dropped down next to her. “I started writing them back in February. You know what they say—‘hope for the best, but plan for the worst.’

“I’m glad I started when I did, because I didn’t realize how much I have to tell you. I’d been planning to spread it out over the next forty or fifty years, but now the best I can do is a crash course. I tried to think about all the important advice a mother can give her daughters. Things you can’t learn in books. Or worse yet, there are dozens of books on the subject, every one of them with their own point of view, and I wanted to make sure you had the wit and wisdom of Kate McCormick before you made any life-altering decisions.”

“I hate to break it to you, Mom,” Lizzie said, “but if your letter to Maggie has any good advice on the virtues of remaining a virgin till her wedding night, you’re too late.”

That broke the ice. Mom howled in laughter. I poked Lizzie in the arm, but I didn’t care. I was pretty sure my mother had already figured it out. And I was also confident that she hadn’t shared her suspicions with my overprotective father.

I have no idea how many times the three of us have been to Magic Pond together, but the next two hours were the best ever. First, we went through the photo album, and page by page, with Mom giving us a hilarious running narrative, we watched ourselves grow up.

And then we talked. No subject was off-limits. Thinking back, I realize that we asked my mother a lot of questions about her past—her childhood, her achievements in school, and of course, everything she could possibly tell us about her relationship with my dad from the first day she met him.

Her questions to us focused on the future. She asked about our plans, our dreams, and so many of the other parts of our lives she knew she wouldn’t be here to watch unfold. To this day, I wish we could relive that moment, and give Mom better answers. Lizzie knew she wanted to become a doctor, and eventually she did. But all I could tell my dying mother at the age of seventeen was that the University of Pennsylvania was my first-choice college.

I never got the chance to tell her that I married a wonderful man; had two beautiful, intelligent, healthy children; found a challenging career that brought me joy and would make her proud; and that my life was purposeful, productive, and relevant.

But there are times, especially when I’m alone in my private little attic hideaway rereading her handwritten eighteen-page letter to the teenage me, that I feel she is up there with me, and she not only knows what I’ve accomplished but she also knows I couldn’t have done it without her inspiration.

At about three o’clock that afternoon, Mom started to fade. The magic elixir Nurse Demmick had given her was starting to wear off.

“You’re looking tired,” I said. “Why don’t we pack up and go. We can talk more later. Dad’s going to bring home dinner.”

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