Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
I turn my book so she can see the cover. “You’re right. This guy survived stage four colon cancer without chemo.”
Amelia frowns. “You have pancreatic cancer that’s in your liver too.”
“I don’t think it matters. His story isn’t about the type of cancer. It’s about his approach to cancer.”
“Approach? What does that mean? How does one approach cancer?”
I slip the sticky note onto my page and close the book. “I think stress has caused my cancer, or at least has played a role in its growth.”
“Then take some time off work.”
I slide my book onto the nightstand and sit on the edge of the bed with my feet dangling off the side. “Amelia, I’m not taking time off. I’ve been given three months to a year to live. I’m simply not going back to work.”
“It’s just a guess.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Listen to yourself, baby. Either I’m going to die before our daughter learns how to drive and gets her first kiss, or something really fucking life-changing has to happen for me to have a prayer of beating the odds.”
The mattress dips behind me, and I glance back at her sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, tears painting her cheeks.
“You h-have to f-fight.”
I stand slowly, grabbing my aching back for a second before running my fingers through my hair. “What if I live instead of fight? What if I let go of everything? Sleep when I want to sleep. Only put things into my body that are good for it. Meditate. Spend time walking barefoot in the grass? Get rid of my phone, my computer, and the television. What if I took away everything that cancer loves? Starve it.”
“Then the chemo would have a better chance.” She wipes her tears and nods.
I deflate. “No. Not chemo.”
“Price—” She shakes her head, pointing to the book. “That’s bullshit. Maybe he didn't even have cancer. Or if he did, maybe it wasn’t really stage four. If sleep and walking in the grass cured cancer, don’t you think it would be all over the news?”
“No.” I laugh, resting a hand on my hip. “I don’t. But it doesn’t matter, Amelia. This is what I want. I want this headache to go away. I want my back not to feel like a goddamn truck is sitting on it. I don’t want to add more pain. And I don’t want to die.”
“Dr. Faber said it could help with the symptoms.”
I blow out a long breath. I’m eternally tired. “If I do the chemo, I will die. If I don’t do the chemo and keep doing my routine, I will die. My body is screaming for me to listen to it. Maybe nothing is the greatest something I can do right now. And it’s what I want. Don’t I get a say in what happens to my body?”
“How can you let Astrid watch you die without a fight?” She wipes more tears.
“What if I don’t have to die?”
“Price, it’s a year. A year might not seem like much, but I want every single second. A year is a lifetime to my heart, and it will be to Astrid’s, too. If you don’t do this for me, at least do it for her.”
“Amelia, I am doing this for her and you! What if I don’t have to die?”
Before she can speak through her soft sobs, our bedroom door cracks open.
“Mom?” Astrid shuffles her bare feet into our bedroom, rubbing her eyes behind the blonde hair hanging in her face. She’s a miniature version of her mom.
Amelia quickly turns away to hide her emotions.
“Hey, sunshine. Sorry. Did I wake you?” I scoop her up, ignoring the searing pain in my back.
“Are you fighting?”
“No. We’re not fighting. I’ll tuck you back into bed.”
“Can we read more of Moon Over Manifest?”
“We can read whatever you want.” I kiss her head and carry her to her white canopy bed with a pink polka dot quilt and so many stuffed animals that I don’t know where she finds room to sleep.
As soon as I toss her into the pile of animals, she giggles and hops out of bed, retrieving the book from her white and turquoise flowered bookshelf.
We manage to wedge ourselves into the tiny space, her tucked under my arm, one of my legs hanging off the side. By the time I get four pages past her marked spot in chapter seven, she’s asleep.
I’ve wiped a lot of Amelia’s tears since my diagnosis, but I haven’t shed one of my own until now.
One tear.
Two tears.
Three, four, five tears.
They slowly descend my face, and I let the book drop from my hand to the rug beneath her bed. Where did the time go?
“I’m pregnant!” Amelia squealed, leaping into my arms when I opened the door to our first apartment. It was a one-bedroom main-floor apartment with an old gray carpet and a few mice. “I know it’s not the best timing, but—”