The Perfect Stranger (Social Media #2)(4)

With three college tuitions looming in the near future, they couldn’t afford to add on or buy anything bigger. Not on Hank’s salary and what little she made working at a local daycare.

Somehow, they survived the old plumbing and wiring and constant repairs; the crowds of kids, the lack of privacy and closet space. Eventually their sons and daughter moved on, and although their finances aren’t terrific—thanks to the economy and a series of bad investments—at least Meredith and Hank grew back into their house.

It may be shabby, but it’s home.

Now, the mere idea of growing old anywhere at all . . . that in itself is a luxury.

“Ouch,” she says aloud, wincing again as she rolls her shoulders.

It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than stretching, a hot bath, or even lying down on the memory foam mattress they splurged on last September when Macy’s had a sale. That was when she was assuming their old, saggy mattress was causing the dull ache in her back. Hank’s back ached, too.

“I think it’s from giving the grandkids piggyback rides,” he said, “not the mattress.”

“Well, I haven’t given anyone piggyback rides. Trust me. It’s the mattress.”

The pricey new one was their early Christmas present to each other, along with the bright, cheerful paisley bedding and curtains that at least made it look like springtime in here all winter long . . . even after she found out the memory foam wasn’t going to cure her hurting bones. Nothing was.

She wishes now that she’d allowed her doctor to prescribe something for the pain during her last visit, but she was afraid she’d become dependent.

“That’s crazy,” Hank said when she told him. “Why would you think that?”

“You hear stories—all those celebrities addicted to prescription pain medication . . . and some of my blogger friends have had issues, too.”

Hank shook his head. “Next time you go, let them give you something. Why suffer?”

Suffer—such a strong word. Especially since she isn’t truly suffering. Not yet, anyway.

There will be plenty of time down the road for Percocet or morphine or whatever it is that doctors prescribe in the final stages . . .

Plenty of time—please, God, let there be plenty of time.

She’s not against pain medicine, but even now, while they still have insurance, their prescription plan isn’t the best. Her medications have already cost them a fortune out of pocket—and a lot of good they did.

Plain old ibuprofen might help, but Hank must have packed the Advil they keep in the master bathroom medicine cabinet. She just looked for it and it wasn’t there. She’s too tired to go hunt for another bottle.

What she really needs right now, as much as, if not more than, medication, is a good, stiff shot of Kentucky Bourbon. There’s plenty of that downstairs, courtesy of living a stone’s throw from some of the world’s finest distilleries.

In the old days—well, in the few years’ window after the kids were grown but before Meredith got sick—she and Hank spent some deliciously decadent weekend afternoons with fellow empty nester friends, sipping their way along the Bourbon trail that lies in the bluegrass hills south of Cincinnati.

She was never a big drinker; just a social one. But that came to a complete halt after her breast cancer diagnosis, when she became hypervigilant about everything she put into her body. She lightened up a bit after five years in remission, but last year a routine test betrayed a resurgence of microscopic cancer cells in her remaining breast tissue, and she went right back on the wagon. Not a drop of liquor, no soy products, only organic fruits and vegetables . . .

I don’t know about that, one of the other bloggers commented on a post where Meredith outlined her stringent habits. What good is being alive if you sacrifice all the fun stuff?

I’m just trying to improve my odds. To each his own, Meredith wrote back.

The blogger—that’s right, now she remembers, it was Elena—Elena wrote back: My mother was a health nut who did everything right, and she was hit by a train before her thirtieth birthday. I did everything right, and I was diagnosed with cancer right after mine. I have to admit: I’m sick of being good.

Meredith understood how Elena felt. But she hoped Elena understood why she herself wasn’t—isn’t—taking any chances.

Certainly not now that the cancer has metastasized to her bones. But of course, Elena doesn’t know about that.

“How long do I have?” Meredith asked the oncologist matter-of-factly when she first got the news.

“Don’t jump the gun, there,” said the doctor, a straight shooter. “It’s a relatively small spot, and we’re going to treat it. Radiation, chemotherapy . . .”

Yes. She knows the drill.

They treat it until everything stops working, and it continues to spread.

That, she suspects, is where they’re headed now. A few weeks ago, the morning after an idyllic Mother’s Day spent cooking outside with Hank and the kids and grandkids, the doctor gave her some discouraging test results, then told her they’re going to try this current treatment—which she knows is basically her last hope—a little longer and take some more tests to see whether it’s working.

She has a feeling it isn’t.

All those needles—God, how she hated needles, even when they were lifelines—endlessly poking into her, delivering medication, drawing blood . . . all for what?