Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(69)

“No one wants to hear they have cancer. There is absolutely no way to prepare for it. And in your case . . .” He shifted. “Let me put it this way. I lost my father to lung cancer when I was eighteen, after watching him fight with it for nearly five years. Those were years he should have been going to baseball games with me, helping me choose a college. But he was either in the hospital or wasting away in his recliner, smoking and watching TV and waiting to die. I remember you saying that you lost your own mother to cancer. I know the trauma of watching a parent succumb to a terrible disease. I assume that is why you didn’t want to continue your medical care.”

“Sort of,” I said. “And I’m sorry. About your father, I mean.”

He folded his hands together. “Thank you. I’m sorry for your loss as well. It doesn’t have to be like that for you, though. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Not really,” I confessed.

“We’ve come a long way since my father was in treatment, and since your mother was, too. I’m not promising you that you can be cured, but you can fight this. And you should. Can you agree to take it one day at a time? We need to find out whether the cancer has spread, and if so, how far. Then we can tailor a treatment plan to your needs. As you know, this form of cancer is rare, but as I mentioned before, I’ve been researching your options, and you may be eligible for a clinical trial. I’d love for us to begin this process right away so you have the best possible chance of getting better.”

“So . . . here’s the thing,” I said. “I’m not planning to stay in Chicago. In fact, as of today, I no longer even have a home.”

“Is this a financial issue? Our social work department can help you navigate insurance and assist you with housing issues.”

“No, no, it’s not like that. It’s just that . . . I’m kind of going through a divorce, and Chicago is the last place I want to be.”

“How terrible for you.” He sounded sincere, and my throat caught.

“Thank you.”

“Of course. Do you have plans to go to a specific city?”

“My brother and his family are in Manhattan. It’s not exactly my favorite place, but . . .”

He nodded. “I’d be concerned if you said you were heading to rural Kansas, but New York is a good place to seek treatment. Our cancer care center has a close relationship with Sloan Kettering. You’d be in good hands if you chose to go there, and I could help you make the transition.”

“What am I up against, exactly? The last time I was here,” I said, gesturing around his office, “you said six months.”

Dr. Sanders was staring at the space just above my head, which did not feel like a good sign. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But it’s not untrue,” I said, heat rising in my chest. “Don’t sugarcoat it. I was basically ready to die a while ago, so nothing you say now is going to shock me.”

“As I said, this cancer is so rare . . .”

I resisted the urge to pull a move from the Paul Miller playbook and start opening and closing my hand like a puppet. Sensing my exasperation, he looked me in the eye and said, “What I am trying to say is that until you go through more thorough testing, I cannot give you a real answer. That’s exactly why I never should have said that in the first place. I made a mistake, and for that, I am truly sorry.” He put his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “What I can tell you, Libby, is that you’re going to have to be strong. And I know you have it in you.”

I stood up and adjusted the shoulder strap on my bag. “I am well aware that I’m strong enough.”

“Please sit down,” Dr. Sanders said.

I looked at him, then at the door. Then I sat back down on the edge of the chair. “I know I can be strong,” I said, more quietly this time. “It’s just that I don’t want to.” I had been strong before—stronger than I would ever need to be now, because truth be told, my mother’s life meant far more to me than my own. And it had not changed a damn thing.

“You have a choice—”

I cut him off. “If you tell me to choose life, I will murder you in your sleep.”

He held his hands up. “I was going to say something along those lines, but I’ll refrain.”

“Good choice.”

We sat in silence: Dr. Sanders, staring in my direction; me, staring out the window at the frozen white waves lining the lakeshore.

“Okay,” I said after a few minutes.

“Okay?” Dr. Sanders said with surprise. It’s true that he had no reason to believe me, considering the last time I said that very thing, I followed up with a no-show.

“Yes. If you can help me get into a good hospital in New York right away, then I’m ready to do this.”

He stood up. And he walked over to me and held his hand out. “I’d be happy to, Libby. Thank you.”

I reached out and let him help me stand. “Thank you, Dr. Sanders,” I said. His bedside manner was not going to win him any awards, but his persistence may have bought me a little extra time.





THIRTY-FIVE


After leaving Dr. Sanders’s office, I got into another cab, this one heading to the airport. As I stared out the window, I didn’t think about treatment, or Tom, or anything concrete, really. I just kept seeing my father’s face in my mind. And the longer he lingered there, the more ashamed I became. Mental break or no mental break, I should have told him weeks ago, before my silence took shape as a lie. And so, in a not-so-quiet corner of O’Hare, I finally called him.