The first notable sign of Sara’s cancer had surfaced in early March as a sudden, sharp pain in her lower abdomen. It wasn’t the first symptom she’d experienced; for several months she had felt fatigued and lost weight but she didn’t think much of it. Her husband had just left her. Stress does awful things to the body.
It wasn’t until after three weeks of recurrent stomach pain that she went to her family doctor to find out what was wrong. He ran a series of tests, then called her three days later to tell her that he had scheduled more tests with a colleague of his who was an oncologist. It was still another week before she had a conclusive diagnosis—stage three pancreatic cancer. The prognosis wasn’t good. Dr. Halestrom, the oncologist, explained to her that the cancer had spread beyond the pancreas to major blood vessels and lymph nodes, so surgery wasn’t an option. Alone with a doctor she’d only met once before, Sara broke down. The doctor let her cry, then said, “There’s always hope.”
Sara wiped her eyes. “Have you ever seen someone with cancer this advanced cured?”
From the doctor’s hesitation she knew the answer before he spoke. “No. I’m sorry.”
After a few more minutes, her crying slowed then stopped. She looked up, calm. This had always been her way: when her mother died, when her husband left her. Get the crying out of the way, then get down to business. “How long do I have?”
“It’s hard to say. I’ve seen people—”
“Your best guess.”
“If we aggressively treat the cancer with a combination of radiation and chemotherapy, six months to a year.”
“If I don’t?”
“Maybe three.”
“That’s not a lot of time,” she said, as if she were talking about a warranty on a washing machine instead of her life. “But, there’s a chance I could make it to my son’s wedding.” Something felt hopeful about that. Her son would be starting a new life and a new family, starting the cycle anew. Cancer or not, her role would diminish in his life. It would be like the changing of acts in a play. The timing, if not perfect, was at least appropriate.
“When is your son’s wedding?”
“New Year’s Day.”
“It’s certainly possible.”
“Then let’s do it. What do I do now?”
“We schedule your chemotherapy and radiation.”
“How soon can we start?”
“I can schedule the first radiation treatment next week. It will help if you have someone to go through this with.” He looked at the ring on her hand. “Are you married?”
She tried to keep her voice steady. “He left me a couple months ago.”
“I’m sorry. Do you have any other family? Friends?”
“My son. But he’s away at college.” She took a deep breath. “There’s my sister.”
“You should give her a call.”
Sara’s treatments began the following week. Her sister, Beth, drove her to her first radiation treatment. She went in at six in the morning and came home the same afternoon, weak and nauseated. As Beth helped her from her car, a silver Toyota Corolla pulled up in the driveway behind her. A young man with short red hair and wearing Weejuns, corduroy jeans, and an oxford button-down shirt climbed out.
“Mrs. Kier?” he said, his eyes darting back and forth between the two women.
Beth didn’t know what the young man wanted but intuitively sensed it couldn’t be good. “You stay away from her. Mrs. Kier is very sick.”
He walked up and handed Sara an envelope. “Sorry. You’ve been served.”
If Beth hadn’t been supporting her sister she likely would have slapped the man. “You have some nerve, you wimpy little mouse, I hope—”
“Beth,” Sara said.
“You’re a terrible person!” Beth yelled at him. “And you’re ugly, you four-eyed carrot-top creep. How do you sleep at night?”
The young man ran wide-eyed back to his car and quickly drove away.
When Sara was in her bed she asked Beth to read the letter.
Beth resisted. “No, honey, it’s not important. It can wait.”
“I need to know.”
Beth reluctantly opened the envelope and read the letter in silence.
“What is it?” Sara asked.
“Honey . . .”
“Jim’s divorcing me.”
Beth exhaled. “The louse . . .”
Sara closed her eyes and for the first time that day she cried. “I thought he would come back,” she said. “I was sure he’d come back.”
“I told you, Sis, he’s lost his soul.” Beth cradled her sister’s head. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”
For the rest of the evening Sara lay in bed sick in body and heart. Though she never said it out loud, for the first time since her diagnosis she was glad she was dying.
Eight months later, Thanksgiving was Sara’s last attempt at normality. With much effort and pain she created a simple Thanksgiving dinner for her, Jimmy, and Juliet. But after preparing the meal she was so exhausted and sick that she wasn’t able to eat. She feared that Jimmy might finally be suspecting the truth of her condition but she did her best to allay his fears. “It’s just the side effect of the treatments,” she told him. “Dr. Halestrom said it would be this way.”
Jimmy didn’t know that she had already made her funeral arrangements. To Sara it wasn’t a question of if, only when. Could she live to see her son married? It was her will versus the cancer, and each day she lost a little ground. If she was strong enough, she could win the battle. But she already knew who would win the war.
