Every Last Drop Read online

  “Your birthday is four months away,” my dad replied, his voice quiet.

  “Yeah, it is.” Because I wasn’t sure I’d make it either.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tuesday, June 17, 2014

  * * *

  “Delores?” I glanced at the kind nurse as she pulled a clip from the tip of my finger after measuring my pulse, which had only strengthened in the last month. “Can I tell you something and you won’t repeat it to my family?”

  “Well, I’ve never been known for my ability to keep a secret, hun, but I can try.”

  I shrugged. I was going to tell them eventually; I just wasn’t sure how. “I went to see Dr. Page again yesterday.”

  “Yeah?” Her eyes widened eagerly. “Prognosis changed?”

  “Nope. Still dying. Still pissed about it.”

  Delores exhaled loudly, disappointment flooding her face. “Jeez, hun. You’re blunt, I’ll give you that.”

  “Sorry.” I grinned, then took a deep breath. “I asked Dr. Page how to…there are pills I can take at the end to…” I paused, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

  “End your life?” Delores finished.

  Nodding, I watched her face for a reaction, but there was none.

  She continued jotting down my vitals in her notebook. “I get it. Before I became a nurse, maybe I wouldn’t have. But now? Seeing what I’ve seen, seeing how the end can be…I get it.”

  I exhaled so loudly I surprised myself. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath.

  Delores continued. “In every terminal patient I’ve had, there comes a day when they’re ready. Done everything they wanted, said their goodbyes, and accepted it, but sometimes the body and mind disagree. They’re ready to die, but the body is still holding on. That’s the worst—watching them suffer and they don’t know how long it’ll be for.”

  “That’s what I’m most afraid of. If I have to go through this, if it has to happen, if I have to die…” A lump formed in my throat at the thought, but I pushed past it. “Then I’d like to have the final choice. The when, the where, the how.”

  One brow raised, Delores smiled. “Fuck that cancer.”

  “Exactly. Fuck it.” I grinned, leaning back in my chair. “I’ve spent my entire life doing what others wanted, going with the flow, taking care of other people’s needs.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Delores added, gesturing to her uniform. “Plenty of people that way.”

  I loved her for her running commentary on what was most likely a monologue. I was sort of talking at her, rather than to her. Trying to see how it sounded aloud. Speaking for the sole purpose of seeing how the words felt out in the universe.

  Sour, dramatic, haunting, and all the other adjectives I’d predicted fell flat. It wasn’t horrible; it wasn’t even painful. It was relieving. I’d spent three hours in Dr. Page’s office yesterday discussing it, leaving Kyle oblivious in the waiting room. There was no doubt he could sense a difference when I exited. Thankfully, he didn’t push. He just bundled me into the car and drove us home where we spent the rest of the evening binge-watching television shows I’d never had time for before.

  We’d barely spoken over the last few weeks. He’d still not come around on the fact that I wasn’t fighting the cancer, but he was trying. I could see that he was trying. We’d still cuddle and make love, but the intimacy was strained. The conversation was muted.

  I was getting stronger as the radiation left my body, and my hair was growing back. It was slow, and sometimes barely noticeable, but it was a process. The first few weeks, I’d only wanted low-key. I’d wanted to curl up on the couch, go on short walks, and eat delicious food.

  Thankfully, my appetite was returning. My throat was healing and the nausea subsiding, so I began to eat more. I wanted to try everything—new restaurants, new cuisines, new flavors—and we did. We went to a new restaurant every day, or Kyle grabbed carry-out which we ate in bed. They’d cut his work hours almost in half for the last month, and, soon, he’d go on leave completely until …

  Until.

  Elly had to finish the summer semester, but she’d be back soon. My dad visited every day, usually around lunch, to dote on me. He would have happily stayed all day, but respected the importance of my time alone with my husband. I knew he loved Kyle like a son, and didn’t want him to miss time with me like he’d missed with my mother.

  “I don’t want to be the person who takes care of everyone else anymore,” I told her. “I want to take charge of what time I have left. I want to be a little selfish, focus on what’s best for me. Period.”

  Delores nodded like she understood. “Then do it, girl. Do what you need to do. Nobody gonna blame you for doin’ you.”

  “I’m not sure.” I thought of how Kyle and Elly had reacted to the news that I wouldn’t pursue further treatments. I couldn’t imagine they’d find favor with my latest decision either.

  Have I decided?

  “Well, what’d Dr. Page say?” Delores asked.

  “He said I’d have to move to Vermont or Oregon, where it’s legal. Said he didn’t think I’d want to spend what time I have left packing, unpacking, establishing residency, etc.”

  Delores frowned. “He’s got a point. Moving is a special sort of hell. My boy and me moved into a new apartment when I got this new job, and damn, I thought that was the answer to all my problems. It’s big and super nice—all renovated and stuff—but wouldn’t you know it, the moment my kid dropped a ball on the ground, it went and rolled into the corner.”

  I furrowed my brow. “Huh?”

  “The whole floor is tilted! I’m living in a crooked apartment! But hey, I got stainless steel appliances and a marble countertop that makes my sister jealous, so you win some, you lose some.” Delores shrugged.

  I tilted my head back, laughing as I imagined Delores walking around an apartment with a crooked floor. “You’re kidding!”

  “I wish.” Delores waved her arms emphatically. “I won a robot vacuum on the radio last month. Piece of crap can’t climb up out of the corner. That corner clean as hell though.”

  I laughed even harder, almost choking on the intensity of it. “Your calf muscles will get a workout every time you walk to the bedroom,” I said, teasing between pants of laughter.

  Delores pointed one slim index finger at me. “You kid, but you’ll see. I’m gonna have me calf muscles like Serena Williams.” She pointed down and flexed her leg, popping out the muscle. “Like bam!”

  I laughed until I couldn’t anymore. She giggled along with me, putting away her equipment and finishing her notes. The conversation lulled as our laughter died down, leaving room for reflection. My thoughts returned to the idea of moving. It did sound awful…but more awful than the alternative?

  “It should be legal everywhere, you know?” I finally said, frustration mounting. “I shouldn’t have to move. My life is here.”

  “You right,” Delores agreed.

  I chewed on the side of my thumbnail. “I guess in the big picture, it wouldn’t be all that hard to move. We’d need to rent a place and go to the DMV. We don’t have to let go of this place, since Kyle will need to live here after.”

  “Don’t you like Chicago?” Delores asked. “It could be hard to be away from home.”

  “I’ve been here my entire life,” I replied, considering for the first time how little I’d ventured in my life. “I love it, but I think I’d also love to live somewhere new, even if only a few months. Vermont sounds so beautiful...”

  “Ooh, and you’re a writer, too. Creative types is all they allow up there, I hear.” Delores pointed to the journal in front of me on the table, open to scrawled pages.

  I’d written so much in the last few months that it actually seemed I might cross this particular goal off my list. I didn’t know what the purpose was exactly, or what I’d wanted people to know, to walk along this journey with me. I just wanted them to remember me—to know I’d mattered once.

 
“New England is the perfect place for a writer,” I agreed with Delores.

  She finished filling a syringe and then connected it to the PICC line on my arm. I watched her plunge down on the top, the pain-relieving liquid pressing into my veins seamlessly. As much as I hated how the permanent IV device looked on my arm, I loved not being pierced every day.

  Delores dropped the syringe into a red box for biohazardous materials. “So, you really going to do this?”

  “I think so,” I admitted, though no one else even knew.

  She smiled and patted my shoulder. “I’ll miss you, girl.”

  I placed my hand on hers. “Thank you, Delores.”

  “Oh, I haven’t done anything, hun.” She shrugged, a sweet smile on her lips.

  “Yes, you have,” I assured her.

  She was the one person who let me take care of myself, instead of taking care of her. I could talk to her about what was happening without having to console her. I loved my family, but I walked on eggshells around them. I tailored my words to make it easier on them, knowing this would be one of the worst things they’ll ever go through and it was my fault.

  Delores, on the other hand, saw this all the time. She cared, probably more than any nurse I’ve ever met, but she didn’t need to be cared for. She was stronger than most and maybe she had to be with this type of job. People needed to know there are others in this world who innately give, and never feel the need to take. That kindness exists even in the most difficult of places, and the most difficult of circumstances.

  Delores was, and always would be, one of those people—her and her Serena Williams calves.

  * * *

  • ღ • ღ • ღ •

  * * *

  Wednesday, June 18, 2014

  * * *

  “I’m looking for Father Jack?” My voice was slightly hesitant as I spoke to the middle-aged woman seated at the front desk of the church office.

  “He’s doing confessions in the chapel right now. You’re welcome to wait here, or go to confession,” she informed me.

  Thanking her, I quickly retraced my steps out of the office and around to the front of the large cathedral where my family usually came on major holidays. Despite our lack of attendance, everyone still tried to attend a few times a year. I guess it was because of laziness that we hadn’t kept up with going, because I enjoyed church when I did.

  The main chapel was large and shaped like a cross with the altar at the farthest point from the main doors. Confessionals were to the right, behind large columns almost hiding them from view. Being mid-afternoon and mid-week, the auditorium was nearly empty.

  One woman was kneeling in the front row, her hands together in prayer. A few church officials bustled around the altar, leaning over a large book. A few more attendees were scattered in pews, either with heads bowed or staring at the large crucifix over the front podium. Whispered chants and praises filtered through the air, the mood heavy and serious.

  Nervously, I wondered what I was doing there—looking to the church for permission for something I’d mostly decided already. I certainly had never claimed to be a good Catholic, and I tended to find strict rules oppressive. I never understood what waits for us on the other side, but now that I’m a few months away from it, I felt like I had to find out. I needed to know what’s next...if there’s anything at all.

  And it kind of seemed like the thing to do—go to church on Christmas, Easter, and when you’re dying. Like every other mediocre Catholic.

  Movement to the right startled me, a tall woman with red-rimmed eyes exiting the confessional. Taking this as my opportunity, I quickly replaced her in the booth.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been...um, well, I guess it’s been years since my last confession,” I admitted. The last time I’d gone was once in college, and I wished I felt guiltier about that.

  I don’t know why I hadn’t been back because I remembered it had been a moving experience. I’d talked about my regrets partially hooking up with half the lacrosse team and earning the nickname Teasing Tessa for the first half of my freshman year of college. I’d gone a little wild with the freedom of being at university, and I didn’t like a lot of the choices that I’d made with alcohol or boys. Thankfully, that chapter of my life didn’t last very long and I quickly found solace in running and hiking, building solid friendships through that instead of partying.

  “Years?” I heard the priest’s voice through the decorative grated panel between us. I was kneeling in front of it and could see his shadow, but nothing more. “That’s quite some time. What brings you in today, dear child?”

  “I have a few questions. I, um...” I paused, unsure of how to blurt out my diagnosis.

  “Anything you say here is between you and God. Feel free to speak freely.”

  I nodded, feeling a little less nervous. God already had the run-down of my situation. “To be honest, I didn’t come to confess. I’m hoping you can tell me what will happen to me when I die. How do I know I’m...right with God?”

  He paused for a moment then cleared his throat. “Are you dying, dear child?”

  I stared down at my clasped hands clutched furiously. “Yes. I have terminal cancer.”

  He sighed, long and forlorn. “This is truly difficult. I am so sorry you are going through such a tragedy. I’ll certainly be praying for you.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “To answer your question, at the moment of death, our souls separate from our physical bodies. There will be no more pain or suffering, only Christ our Lord. According to teachings, all souls will be judged for eternal life in Heaven or the damnation of Hell. Those of us who aren’t saints, meaning the majority of us—including me—will find ourselves somewhere in between.”

  “What’s that mean—in between?” I asked. It sounded terrifying.

  “A temporary punishment for souls to purge the sins limiting our ability to fully envision and enjoy God in Heaven. It is truly a blessing, since it means you will be going to Heaven. We just need to clean up a bit first. When you asked if there is a way to know if you are right with God, I think that is your answer. Before death, after death, all we are ever doing is trying to get right with God. We will always fall short, and He knows this.”

  I sat back on my heels for a minute, pondering his words. It didn’t sound as frightening as I’d envisioned. More of a next step than a last. “What’s it like?”

  “I couldn’t say, dear child. I could only guess as well as you. I do know the Lord tells us not to be afraid,” Father Jack replied. “Does death frighten you?”

  “No, not particularly. Everything leading up to it, though. That scares me,” I said honestly. “Pain, paralysis, seizures…why? I’m already dying, isn’t that enough?”

  “God allows hardships in our lives for a reason, but it’s not always easy to know what those reasons are.”

  Tears pricked my eyes. I looked at the ceiling of the confessional, hoping to blink them away. This isn’t fair. It’s too much…too soon.

  “I get a sense there is more on your mind,” Father Jack continued.

  I peered through the decorative slats between us, squinting to see his face, but it was dark and shadowy. Deciding not to hold back, I cleared my throat. “Is it true anyone who...” I tried to find the words somewhere in my jumbled-up brain. My cheeks flamed hot, a nervous churning in the pit of my stomach.

  “Go on, dear child,” he prodded.

  “Is it true anyone who, um, ends their own life…” I closed my eyes. “Is it true they automatically go to hell?”

  There was an audible sadness in his exhale. I’d heard it before, an image of my dad’s pained face flashing before me, reminding me of how many people would be affected by this.

  When he finally spoke, I was surprised not to detect judgment in his voice, only kindness and empathy. “Are you considering suicide?”

  “Not suicide. Not today, but…” I babbled, trailing off.

  “But
once your symptoms progress and the end is near?” he finished for me.

  I nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “Yes. If I go to Vermont, doctors can give me a medication to help me. Then, in a few months…” I trailed off again.

  A silence passed, unnerving me. I waited as calmly as I could, my knees on the kneeling board and my hands clasped together.

  A softly mumbled amen broke the quiet. Father Jack continued. “Are you baptized?”

  “I am.” As an infant, according to my dad, though I couldn’t remember it.

  He made a low humming sound before he spoke. “Well, the Catholic Church’s position remains steadfast. The killing of any human being, whether at your own hands, or someone else’s—and no matter the reason—is a mortal sin.”

  “I’d go to hell,” I surmised. Mortal sins don’t just weaken, but sever entirely one’s link to God, condemning their soul to hell for eternity.

  Father Jack didn’t say anything for a moment, and I wondered if he was trying to find a nice way to tell me I was a doomed hellion.

  “Maybe, but I am not sure that is always the case.”

  I frowned. “But you just said—”

  “Officially, the Church has a clear stance,” he cut me off. “It is a mortal sin, and I urge you to consider every option carefully. There are always other options.”

  I sighed, feeling both confused, and already a sinner.

  “However,” Father Jack continued, leaning toward the divider between us and lowering his voice. “Personally, I am of a slightly different mind. I believe God knows our hearts and minds before—and during—a decision such as that and that is what we are judged on. God does not blindly condemn us. He looks at our hearts, our motivations.” He paused again.

  I could practically hear him considering his words carefully, and I leaned forward, desperate to hear what he had to say.