“Neither do I.” He crouched beside my chair. “But Iknowyou. And I know you’d rather die fighting than die wondering if you could have survived.”
He was right. Completely right about it.
“The odds are terrible,” I said.
“The odds have always been terrible. They were terrible when Dr. Rivera first gave you the diagnosis. They’ve been terrible every day since. But you’re still here.”
“Luck doesn’t last forever.”
“Maybe not. But you’ve beaten every timeline they’ve given you so far.” His hand found mine. “Whatever you decide, I’m with you. If you want surgery, I’ll be there when you wake up. If you want palliative care, I’ll make sure every day counts. There’s no wrong choice.”
“Feels like there are only wrong choices.”
“Then pick the one you can live with.” He said it gently, without judgment. “Your fears are valid.”
I looked at my lists again. At all the logical reasons on both sides. At the attempt to quantify something that couldn’t be quantified.
“I want the surgery,” I heard myself say, before fear could talk me out of it.
Michael’s face broke into a mix of emotions—relief and terror fighting for space.
“You’re sure?”
“No. But I’m deciding anyway.” I stood up. “I’d rather die trying than die waiting. Does that make sense?”
“Complete sense.”
I called Dr. Matthews that evening. Told her I wanted to proceed with surgery. She said she’d schedule it for the next two days—gave me time to prepare, to handle affairs, to say what needed to be said in case things went badly.
In case I didn’t wake up.
My parents came over again.
“We support whatever you decide,” my mother said. Her voice was steady but her eyes were glistening. “If you want surgery, we’ll be there. If you want to wait, we’ll wait.”
“I want the surgery.”
My father nodded, his eyes a shiny mist of pride and approval. “That’s my brave girl.”
He reached over and took my mother’s hand. They sat there united in their terror, trying so hard to be supportive while clearly wanting to lock me away somewhere safe.
After they left, I called Pauline.
“You’re doing the surgery,” she said. Not a question.
“How did you know?”
“Because you’re you. You’ve never waited for anything to happen when you could make it happen instead.” I heard her moving around, probably pacing. “When?”
“Thursday.”
“Shit. That’s soon.”
“I know.”
“Okay. What do you need from me?”
I thought about it. “If I don’t make it?—”
