Five months. Or less.
It wasn't fair.
The universe was supposed to have a sense of rhythm, a progression from youth to experience, but my song was being cut off mid note. Finals were only a month away. I had already meticulously picked out my classes for the next semester, agonizing over electives and scheduling. I'd even sent in the tuition.
I wondered, with a dark, hysterical sort of humor, if I should withdraw. But why bother with the paperwork? It wasn't like I'd live long enough to even owe the first payment on my student loans. The debt would die with me.
Enjoy your Christmas. Dr. Robertson's parting words felt like a serrated blade. The last Christmas I'd actually enjoyed had been two years ago, back when my grandmother was still alive to bake ginger snaps and fill the house with the scent of pine and safety. Now, there was no one left. Last year, I'd gone home with my roommate, Elisa, and her sister, but the holiday had been a hollow performance. I'd been miserable with grief, and even more miserable trying to pretend that I wasn't. I didn't have the strength to do it again, to smile through the carols and the lights with the specter of my own death hanging like a noose around my neck. I'd already decided it would be better for everyone if I stayed in our university apartment alone, fading away in the quiet.
I dashed away the betraying tears with the back of a trembling hand and pulled my phone from my pocket. The screen felt cold against my palm. Elisa would want to know the news. I was certain she'd freak out, her optimistic world shattering along with mine. My finger hovered over her name, the blue light of the contact card mocking me. She deserved to be told. When she'd found me sobbing in my room the day of the initial diagnosis, she'd folded me into one of her massive, bone deep hugs. She'd told me I was a fighter, that I was going to beat this, and that she'd be there for me until the very end.
She'd held up her end of the bargain. She'd sat through the chemo sessions and the nausea. I was the one failing. I couldn't bring myself to tell her that I wasn't going to hold up mine, that the "fight" was over and the cancer had won.
I pulled the hospice brochure out of my pocket and smoothed the creased paper against my thigh. There was a photograph on the front, the edges artfully out of focus to suggest a dreamlike peace. It showed an elderly woman being hugged by a smiling model who looked ageless and perfectly Kind. The text was a minefield of soft, terrifying words: care, love, comfort, dignity. To me, they all just meant dying. The toll free number stared back at me like an unblinking eye, but I couldn't make myself dial it. Calling that number was an admission of defeat. It was signing my own death warrant.
Then, my fingers found the other card. The small, mysterious linen square with the single, copperplate number. The cold from the hard cement beneath me was beginning to seep through my jeans and into my marrow, and the winter wind bit at my tear stained cheeks. I shifted, my joints clicking in protest. What did I really have to lose? If Dr. Robertson, the woman who had just handed me a brochure for a deathbed thought this was a "chance," then I had to take it.
With numb fingers, I entered the number into my phone. I stared at the digits for a long, agonizing moment before my thumb finally brushed the send button. The phone rang once, a sharp, digital chirp. Then a second time.
"Name?"
The voice was male. It was light, crisp, and utterly impersonal, as if he were asking for a reservation at a restaurant rather than answering a literal lifeline.
Taken aback by the lack of a greeting, it took me a second to find my voice. "Amanda... Amanda Ann McCann."
"Please proceed to the emergent care entrance, Ms. Amanda," the man said, his tone clipped and efficient. "A car will meet you there shortly. Thank you."
"But"… I started to ask who he was, or what kind of "chance" this actually was.
I looked down at the phone. The call duration was flashing at 0:08 on the display. He had already hung up. The line was dead, leaving me alone in the freezing alcove with nothing .