“I know this isn’t what you were hoping to hear, but you have an aggressive type of breast cancer,” he said. “It’s already metastasized to your liver and spine. The treatment involves a combination of surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation, but the prognosis is poor.”
Lisa felt like she couldn’t breathe.
“How long do I have?” said the woman.
“It’s better not to think about it in those terms,” he said. “You’ll drive yourself crazy. Just enjoy each moment as it comes and focus on spending quality time with your family.”
“Andrew, we’ve always been honest with each other,” she said. “Just tell me. Please.”
“You have less than five years,” he said.
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
Lisa’s father sighed.
“I can repeat the tests, if that would help you feel more confident about the diagnosis,” he said. “Denying the truth isn’t going to make it go away. If you want to stay here in Silvertree for treatment, the hospital where I work has the best cancer center in the region. I can write the orders and have you admitted today.”
“Andrew, stop,” she said. “This can’t be happening. I’m not ready. I have a husband and four children who need me. There must be something you can do. You deal with this sort of thing all the time. It’s not so bad. It hasn’t slowed me down.”
“Sabrina, it’s not that simple,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t tell me you’re sorry, Andrew,” she said. “Tell me you can help. Considering the number of credentials you’ve got after your name, you ought to be able to offer me some hope. Seriously, what good are you if you can’t even do that?”
“It’s perfectly natural for you to feel angry,” he said. “I don’t blame you. I’d probably feel the same way.”
“Oh, don’t be so condescending,” she said. “I bet you get a sense of satisfaction every time one of your patients lashes out at you. It’s all part of the process, isn’t it? You don’t even have to defend yourself. You just have to wait for the final outcome. Admit it, Andrew: you’ve got a morbid fascination for human suffering. Look at your face. You don’t even care.”
“Sabrina, I’m not happy about this,” he said. “If I seem indifferent, it’s because I’ve been in this situation so many times before.”
“No, I’m not like your other patients,” she said. “I can take anything you throw at me. You don’t have to be gentle. Just get rid of it. Do whatever you have to do. It doesn’t matter. You can get a scalpel and cut off my breast for all I care. Cut them both off. I don’t need them anymore. The baby is already on formula, and she’s doing fine. I don’t care how it will look. I can wear prosthetics for now and get implants later.”
“Does Arthur know about this?” said Lisa’s father.
“Who cares?” said the woman. “It’s my body and my decision.”
“That’s not my point, and you know it,” he said. “No surgeon is going to touch you in your current condition, so you can forget about it. You only have one option right now, and that’s chemotherapy. I asked you about Arthur because you’re going to need his help. You’re spiraling out of control right now, and the sooner you get him on board, the easier it will be for both of you. Why don’t you call him and tell him what’s going on?”
“Forget it,” she said. “I’m not an invalid. I’ve always been independent. Arthur’s not even home right now. He took the boys on a camping trip. I’ll tell him when he gets back, but I don’t know how. I hate hurting him. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could give him some sort of hope.”
“There’s always hope,” said Lisa’s father. “It won’t be easy, but it’s not the end. Not yet. It’s just a different kind of life.”
“Life before death,” she said.
“It’s something we’ll all face eventually,” he said.
“Yes, I know,” she said. “Thank you for reminding me. You’re right. I can’t avoid it, but I’m not going to spend my last days in the hospital, hooked up to machines. That’s not how I want my children to remember me. Josh and Shannon are old enough to deal with it maybe—they’ll be going off to college next year—but Stephen is only thirteen. He’s fragile. No, if I have to fight this battle, I’m going to do it on my own terms.”
“What do you mean?” said Lisa’s father.
“Maybe there’s something else we can try,” she said. “Do you remember Peterson?”
Lisa felt a shiver run down her back. The name was unfamiliar to her, but something about it filled her with dread. Curiosity got the better of her, and she peered out from behind the couch, being careful not to draw attention to herself.
Her father had gotten up and was standing in front of the mantelpiece, quite close to the urn. He fidgeted with his necktie as if it were strangling him. Lisa could see his face, although it was partially turned away from her, and she watched in fascination as the color drained away. Talking about mortality didn’t scare him, but talking about Peterson did. Lisa wasn’t sure what this implied about Peterson, but she suspected the worst.
The woman got up and sidled over to him. She was slender to the point of being frail, but there was something tenacious about her, and Lisa’s father stepped back. His retreat placed the urn between them. The woman rested her elbow on the mantelpiece. The red glow from the fire illuminated their faces.
“You know where I’m going with this,” she said.
“Yes, I do,” said Lisa’s father. “You’re crazy, Sabrina.”
“I’m not crazy,” she said. “I’m desperate. There’s a difference. Peterson was brilliant. Why shouldn’t we benefit from that? It’s a crime to bury the good with
