Your Perfect Year(43)
Go for it!
Well! Now it was becoming truly adolescent. What was this nonsense supposed to mean? Who had time for that? And above all, what was the point?
Jonathan knew what he was grateful for in his life; he didn’t have to spend time writing it all down. Unlike his father, he didn’t have dementia, so he didn’t run the risk of forgetting.
For example, he was grateful for . . . for . . . grateful for . . .
For what, exactly?
20
Hannah
Fifteen days before:
Tuesday, December 19, 9:23 p.m.
They didn’t drink the Gavi. Nor did they eat the sea bream, vitello tonnato, or seafood pizza. They ate nothing. Instead, they talked. No, Simon talked.
He told her how he’d spent half the day in the hospital after being sent there by the doctor. How they’d turned him inside out with physical examinations, further blood tests, and an ultrasound. How at some stage he’d found himself sitting in front of a triumvirate of doctors with identical expressions of concern, who had informed him they believed he had lymphoma and advised him to come for a biopsy as soon as possible for further clarification of the type and progress of the disease.
How he had left the clinic with his head spinning. Panic stricken, in despair, scared. How he had at last ended up at home and done some internet research. And how he had made the shattering discovery that he would certainly be dead within the next twelve months.
At this point, Hannah interrupted him, bravely suppressing her tears. “But what makes you think that? You don’t know for certain yet that—”
“Hannah! You weren’t there. But I saw the expressions on those doctors’ faces. The way they looked at me, the way they felt me from head to toe, shaking their heads all the while. The way they studied my lab results and scans with their eyebrows raised, exchanging gloomy looks with one another. Believe me, the cancer has spread all over my body. This ‘further clarification’ they spoke of is just for reassurance. To make sure I don’t jump straight off the nearest bridge.” He laughed bitterly. “I’m afraid I know what’s what with cancer. The doctors were always trying to give my parents hope, but in the end it only led to years of suffering for each of them.”
“You don’t know about your own situation!” The words tumbled out of Hannah’s mouth.
“I do,” he said. “For one thing, I’ve got a genetic predisposition and have always carried an increased risk of cancer.” He counted off on his fingers. “Also, I appear to be suffering already from B symptoms.”
“B symptoms?”
“It seems that what I thought was a stubborn but harmless cold is actually a side effect of the lymphoma.”
“It seems.”
“It’s more than my own opinion. The internet is full of stories about people who experienced exactly the same things. Most of them were dead within six months. The cancer grows really quickly, especially in younger people like me. Just Google ‘lymphoma’ and you’ll see what I mean.”
“For God’s sake, Simon!” She slapped the flat of her hand down on the table and stared at him, stunned. “I hope you’re not intending to rely on Dr. Google for such an important thing.”
“Of course not. But don’t forget, I’m a journalist. I know which sources are to be trusted and which aren’t. And I’m not a daydreamer who always sees the best in everything and tells himself it’s not going to be so bad.”
“Are you talking about me?” She swallowed the next sob.
“No,” he replied quickly. Then he checked himself, searching for the right words. “Hannah, I simply don’t have your positive outlook; it’s not one of my gifts. I don’t think you’re a daydreamer—just look at the success you’ve made of Little Rascals—but deep down, we’re very different. And I prefer to look reality in the eye and acknowledge that I’m likely to be dead within a year. I can’t fool myself.”
“I refuse to listen to this garbage!” Hannah felt an impotent rage rising up inside her over Simon’s stubborn refusal to rule out any possibility that things might not be as bad as he feared. “We’re going home right now, and we’ll sit down and think calmly about where we go from here. If I have to, I’ll take you from one expert to the next—a whole string of them. There’s no question of you just giving in!”
“No,” he said. “There is no ‘we’ anymore.”
“No! I won’t let you go! We’ll see this through together!”
Simon didn’t reply but simply looked at her sadly.
“Come on.” She stood. “We’ll pay at the door.”
He made no move to rise, and she sank back down into her chair. She suddenly saw that he, too, was fighting tears. And she felt what she hadn’t allowed herself to feel until that moment: fear. Fear that grabbed her around the throat and pressed hard with an icy grip.
“Simon,” she whispered. “Please.”
He took her hand again. “I know how difficult this is for you. But I’m sticking to my decision. My mother watched my father die for ten long years. Constantly veering between worry and hope, day in, day out. All the operations and chemo, the sleepless nights of pain and sickness, the weeks-long hospital stays, over and over and over again. The small steps of progress that only led to the next horrid setback. Mama totally neglected her own life; she put it on hold for Papa’s sake. And then? When he finally died and she could have enjoyed her remaining years, she got sick herself and died a hideous death. I don’t want to think of that happening to you—it’s out of the question!”