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Amelia makes my “favorites,” so I try to eat them to make her feel better.
I turn into a robot, a sick robot, trying to please my wife and daughter. The two people I love most have become my biggest obstacle to getting better. And I believe I can beat this.
Fuck the odds.
Modern medicine can’t predict or control the most important component of life.
One’s mind.
The spirit within.
Thoughts are powerful.
I believe they are the most powerful force in the world. They control actions and reactions on every level of human existence.
Mind over matter isn’t a mere cliché. It’s the secret to life, but it shouldn’t be a secret. Humans have a knack for overcomplicating everything. The simple answer is usually the right one.
“Seeing you like this is killing me,” Amelia whispers, sitting on the edge of the bed a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving.
I peel open my eyes. The pain comes and goes in unpredictable waves.
“I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well,” I mumble. “Just let me sleep, and I’ll be fine when she gets home from school.”
“Your mom said there’s a doctor in Boston who’s seen some success with a new drug for pancreatic cancer.”
“Stage four?”
“I don’t know, but I think it’s worth looking into, don’t you?”
“No.” I roll in the opposite direction because my back is as stiff as can be.
She climbs into bed, lying on her side to face me.
“You are the love of my life,” she whispers.
I find a smile. “And you are mine.”
“I feel helpless.”
“Then surrender,” I murmur.
“What does that mean?”
“Stop trying to control this outcome.”
“I can’t.” Her forehead wrinkles.
I know she can’t. I’d feel the same way if she were the one with cancer. Our love is big. All-consuming. And it’s bright—a blinding kind of love that makes it impossible to see what needs to be done. And it’s literally killing me.
“You’re the quirkiest, funniest, and kindest person I have ever known.” I rest my hand on her cheek. “Nothing we’ve ever done has been anything less than earth-shattering.”
She grins. “I hit you with my car.”
“You did.”
“The tire on our getaway car after the wedding blew out, and we landed in the ditch.” She giggles. It’s been too long since she’s laughed.
“Astrid was born in the car a mile from the hospital,” I say.
