Every Breath(10)

The memory still made her smile, and she wondered what the new owners intended to do with the place. She wanted to imagine that they wouldn’t change a thing, but she wasn’t naive. During her childhood, the cottage had been one of many similarly sized homes along this stretch of shoreline; now there were only a few cottages remaining. In recent years, Sunset Beach had been discovered by the wealthy, and more than likely, the cottage would be razed and a new, much larger home constructed, like the three-story monstrosity right next door. It was the way of the world, she supposed, but it nonetheless felt like part of her was being razed as well. She knew it was crazy thinking—a little too woe is me—and she chided herself for it. Playing the martyr wasn’t like her; until recently, she’d always thought of herself as a glass-half-full, because today is a new day kind of girl. And why not? In most ways her life had been blessed. She had loving parents and two wonderful older sisters; she was an aunt to three boys and two girls, who were a source of constant joy and surprise to her. She’d done well in school, and she enjoyed her work as a trauma nurse in the ER at Wake County Medical Center. Despite the few pounds she wanted to lose, she was healthy. She and Josh—an orthopedic surgeon—had been dating since she was thirty, and she loved him. She had good friends and owned her own condominium in Raleigh, not far from her parents. From the outside, everything looked just peachy.

So why was she feeling so wonky right now?

Because it was one more trying thing in an already trying year, beginning first and foremost with her dad’s diagnosis, that particular soul-crushing bombshell arriving in April. Her dad was the only one who hadn’t been surprised at the news from the doctor. He’d known something was amiss when he no longer had the energy to jog in the woods behind his house.

Her dad had exercised in those woods for as long as she could remember; despite the construction engulfing Raleigh, the area had been designated a greenbelt, which was one of the reasons her parents had bought their home in the first place. Over the years, various developers had tried to overturn the city’s decision, promising jobs and tax revenue; they did so without success, partly because her father had opposed them at every meeting of the city council.

Her dad adored the woods. Not only did he run there in the mornings, but after he finished at the school, he would walk the paths he’d followed earlier in the morning. When she was a little girl, she would tag along with him after work, chasing butterflies or tossing sticks, hunting for crawdads in the small creek that wove toward the path in places. Her dad was a high school science teacher who knew the names of every bush and tree they passed. He would point out the differences between a southern red oak and a black oak and in that instant, the distinctions were as obvious as the color of the sky. Later, though, if she attempted it on her own, the information jumbled together. The same thing would happen when they stared at constellations in the sky; he’d point out Hercules, Lyra, or Aquila and she’d nod in wonder, only to squint in confusion at the same sky a week later, trying to remember which one was which.

For a long time, she’d believed her dad to be the smartest man in the world. When she would tell him that, he’d always laugh and say that if that were true, then he would have figured out a way to earn a million dollars. Her mom was a teacher, too—second grade—and it wasn’t until Hope graduated from college and began paying her own bills that she realized how much of a financial challenge it must have been for them to raise a family, even on their combined income.

Her dad had been a coach to the high school’s cross country and track teams as well. He never raised his voice, but nonetheless led his teams to numerous conference championships. Along with her sisters, Hope had participated in both sports all four years of high school, and though none of them were stars, Hope still jogged a few times a week. Her older sisters ran three or four days a week, and for the past ten years, Hope had joined her dad and her sisters at the annual Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving morning, all of them working up an appetite before sitting down at the table. Two years earlier, her dad had won his age-group bracket.

But now, her dad would never run again.

It had started with occasional twitches and a slight, if noticeable, fatigue. For how long, she wasn’t exactly sure, but she guessed that it had been a couple of years. In the twelve months after that, the runs in the woods became jogs, and then finally walks.

Old age, his internist suggested, and it made sense. By then, her dad was in his late sixties—he’d retired four years earlier—and he had arthritis in his hips and feet. Despite a life of exercise, he took medication for slightly elevated blood pressure. Then, last January, he’d caught a cold. It was a normal, run-of-the-mill cold, but after a few weeks, her dad had still found it harder to breathe than usual.

Hope had gone with him to another appointment with his internist. More tests were done. Blood work was sent to the labs. He was referred to another doctor, then another. A muscle biopsy was taken, and when the results came back, there was the suggestion of a potential neurological problem. It was at that point that Hope began to worry.

More tests followed, and later, Hope sat with the rest of her family as the diagnosis of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis was pronounced. Lou Gehrig’s disease, the same disease that put Stephen Hawking in a wheelchair, caused the death of neurons that control voluntary muscles, the doctor explained. Muscles gradually weakened, resulting in loss of mobility, swallowing, and speaking. And, then, finally, breathing. There was no known cure.