Page 102 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“‘Don’t die’ is brilliant advice, but it’s not exactly something I can write a scrip for.”

“What about ‘Don’t die so fast’? Could you write a scrip for that?”

“You lost me,” she said.

“When Dr. Byrne gave me the bad news back in June, he tried to convince me to go for chemo, or stem cell, or sign up for a clinical trial, but I said no. All that would do is buy me some time, and having watched my mother I knew it was shit time, and I didn’t want to go through what she went through. I’ve been so locked into my decision that I forgot I had other options.”

Esther leaned forward in her chair. “You would consider chemo?”

“Not then, but now I would. If it could keep me alive for another six months or a year, I’d suffer the indignities of chemo. Kevin and Katie just had one parent taken from them without warning. I can’t ‘not die,’ but I think Dr. Byrne can help me postpone the inevitable. That would give the kids a chance to brace themselves and find some stability after losing Alex. What do you think?”

She shook her head. “I think it’s a difficult choice, Maggie. But you know the rules—it’s one you’ll have to make on your own.”

SIXTY-TWO

It was an easy decision, and on the Friday morning of Labor Day weekend, when most people were gearing up for summer’s last hurrah, I was sitting on a table in Noah Byrne’s examining room talking about my own last roll of the dice.

“I’m glad you’re doing this, Maggie,” he said.

“It’s a no-brainer,” I said. “My kids need me. They’re better off with a bald mom than no mom at all.”

“We don’t have time for lab error, so I’ve told Rachel to take two samples and FedEx one of them out to Kensington in St. Louis.”

“How soon can I start treatment?”

“It’s a holiday weekend. I won’t have a definite answer until Tuesday morning. Both reports will be in my computer when I get in. Meet me here at seven thirty. We’ll go over the numbers, and we’ll outline an aggressive plan to give you more time with your family.”

“I think I’d like to bring Lizzie.”

“Don’t think. Bring her. You can’t have a bigger champion in your corner.” He looked at my chart. “Your vitals are normal. How have you been feeling?”

“I had a little incident a few weeks ago. I was in the city, and I passed out and wound up in an ER. But right now, I’m feeling good enough to brave the crowds and go back-to-school shopping with the kids.”

“One condition,” he said. “Don’t shop till you drop. You need all the strength you can muster to fight this disease.”

Later that morning Katie, Kevin, and I made our annual trek to Woodbury Common, a sprawling complex of over two hundred high-end outlet stores in Central Valley.

Alex’s death had completely altered our lives, but there was no getting around the fact that my growing teenagers needed clothes, shoes, school supplies, and most of all, an escape from the Heartstone fishbowl where we were bombarded by well-meaning well-wishers who made us relive events we were trying to put behind us.

Three hours later, having found everything on our list plus a few things that weren’t, we were desperately in need of sustenance. According to the mall directory, we had twenty-two options, but for the third year in a row, the unanimous choice was the double burger, cheesy fries, frozen custard experience at Shake Shack.

“You know what I hate about this place?” Katie said, chomping down on a burger. “They ruin everything by posting how many calories I’m eating.”

“It’s the law,” I said.

“Grandpa doesn’t put calories on his menu.”

“He will when McCormick’s becomes a chain. All he needs is nineteen more stores.”

“Do you think Grandpa would do that?” Kevin asked.

“What? Open a second restaurant? I doubt it,” I said.

“Why not? McDonald’s started with one store. KFC started with one store. We could sell franchises.”

“What do you know about franchising?” Katie said.

“More than you. I was talking to Hunter, and he knows a ton of shit about how to make money.”

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