Chapter 18
Claudette
I made lists.
Pros and cons. Risk versus reward. What happens if I do nothing versus what happens if I try.
The surgical option Dr. Matthews had presented sat in my mind like a weight I couldn’t move. Less than a six-percent success rate.
But also—a chance.
The first real chance anyone had offered me since this nightmare began.
I sat at Michael’s desk with a legal pad covered in my handwriting. Two columns. Surgical intervention on the left. Palliative care on the right.
Surgery meant: possible survival, a chance at a future, fighting instead of waiting, giving Michael something to hold onto.
It also meant: probably dying on the table, potentially worse quality of life if I survived with complications, putting Michael through watching me try and fail, stealing peaceful time for a gamble that wouldn’t pay off.
I’d been staring at these lists for two days straight.
Michael found me there on the second afternoon, still sitting at his desk, pen in hand, no closer to a decision than I’d been forty-eight hours ago.
“You’re overthinking it,” Michael said from the doorway.
“I’m deciding whether to risk dying in surgery or accept dying slowly. There’s no such thing as overthinking that.”
He crossed to me. Looked at my lists. “What does your gut say?”
“My gut says I’m terrified either way.”
“Then what does your heart say?”
I set down the pen and looked up at him. “My heart says I want more time with you. I just don’t know which option gives us that.”
“Neither do I.” He crouched beside my chair. “But I know you. And I know you’d rather die fighting than die wondering if you could have survived.”
He was right. Completely right about it.
“The odds are terrible,” I said.
“The odds have always been terrible. They were terrible when Dr. Rivera first gave you the diagnosis. They’ve been terrible every day since. But you’re still here.”
“Luck doesn’t last forever.”
“Maybe not. But you’ve beaten every timeline they’ve given you so far.” His hand found mine. “Whatever you decide, I’m with you. If you want surgery, I’ll be there when you wake up. If you want palliative care, I’ll make sure every day counts. There’s no wrong choice.”
“Feels like there are only wrong choices.”
“Then pick the one you can live with.” He said it gently, without judgment. “Your fears are valid.”
I looked at my lists again. At all the logical reasons on both sides. At the attempt to quantify something that couldn’t be quantified.
“I want the surgery,” I heard myself say, before fear could talk me out of it.
Michael’s face broke into a mix of emotions—relief and terror fighting for space.
“You’re sure?”
“No. But I’m deciding anyway.” I stood up. “I’d rather die trying than die waiting. Does that make sense?”
“Complete sense.”
I called Dr. Matthews that evening. Told her I wanted to proceed with surgery. She said she’d schedule it for the next two days—gave me time to prepare, to handle affairs, to say what needed to be said in case things went badly.
In case I didn’t wake up.
My parents came over again.
“We support whatever you decide,” my mother said. Her voice was steady but her eyes were glistening. “If you want surgery, we’ll be there. If you want to wait, we’ll wait.”
“I want the surgery.”
My father nodded, his eyes a shiny mist of pride and approval. “That’s my brave girl.”
He reached over and took my mother’s hand. They sat there united in their terror, trying so hard to be supportive while clearly wanting to lock me away somewhere safe.
After they left, I called Pauline.
“You’re doing the surgery,” she said. Not a question.
“How did you know?”
“Because you’re you. You’ve never waited for anything to happen when you could make it happen instead.” I heard her moving around, probably pacing. “When?”
“Thursday.”
“Shit. That’s soon.”
“I know.”
“Okay. What do you need from me?”
I thought about it. “If I don’t make it—”
“Don’t.”
“Pauly, I have to say this.”
She was quiet.
“If I don’t make it, take care of Michael. He’s going to fall apart and he’ll pretend he’s fine but he won’t be. Make sure he eats. Make sure he doesn’t work himself to death. Make sure—” My voice caught. “Make sure he knows it wasn’t his fault.”
“Claudette—”
“And Jack. He’s going to blame himself even though there’s nothing he could have done. Remind him I love him. That I’ve always loved him even when he was being an overprotective pain in the ass.”
“You’re going to survive,” Pauline said fiercely. “You’re going to wake up from surgery and we’re going to go get ridiculously expensive cocktails and laugh about how dramatic you were being.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’m always right. You know this.”
We talked for another hour. About college memories and terrible dates and all the normal things that felt precious now that time was running out.
Michael and I spent the next day being present. No talk of surgery or odds or what-ifs. Just us and the ocean and time we weren’t wasting.
We walked on the beach at sunset. Michael took photos of me with the water behind me, golden light turning everything beautiful. I took photos of him laughing at something I’d said, his hair a mess from the wind.
We cooked together. Well, Michael cooked and I sat on the counter drinking fruit wine and providing commentary. He made pasta and I made fun of his technique. He told me I was a terrible sous chef and I said that’s one advantage of being his wife—for his cooking skills.
“Just my cooking skills?” he asked.
“And your uh— voice maybe?”
“I’m reconsidering this marriage.”
“Too late. You’re stuck with me.”
We made love slowly. Taking our time. Memorizing each other in case this was the last chance. Neither of us said that out loud but we both knew it.
Afterwards I lay with my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, trying to imprint the sound in my memory.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“How much I love you. How grateful I am for this. For you. For all of it.”
His arms tightened around me. “Don’t talk like you’re saying goodbye.”
“I’m not. I’m just saying in case I forget to say it later.”
“You won’t forget. You’re going to survive this and we’re going to have years to say it.”
I wanted to believe him so badly it physically hurt.
The night before surgery, I couldn’t sleep.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to Michael breathe beside me, thinking about the morning. About the surgery that might kill me.
Around midnight, I slipped out of bed quietly so I wouldn’t wake Michael.
I found paper and a pen, sat at the desk in the corner, and began to write.
Michael,
If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t make it through the surgery. I’m sorry. I know you told me to think positively, to believe I’d survive, but I need to write this just in case.
These last weeks have been the best of my life. Even with the diagnosis. Even with the fear. Getting to love you and be loved by you was worth all the pain that came with it.
I’m not angry about dying young. I’m sad about the life we won’t get to have together, but I’m not angry. Because what we did have was perfect. You made me feel alive right up until the very end. That’s a gift not everyone gets.
Please keep living. Keep finding beauty. Keep being the man who makes perfect pasta and reads Jane Eyre out loud even though it’s not his favorite. Keep being you.
Don’t blame yourself for this. The tumor was always going to win eventually. Surgery was always a gamble. If it didn’t pay off, that’s not on you. That’s just the shitty hand we got dealt.
I love you. I love you so much it feels inadequate to write it down. But I love you. Thank you for marrying me. Thank you for the carnival and the ferris wheel and the beach. Thank you for every moment.
Live. Please. Live enough for both of us.
Forever yours,
Claudette
I sealed it in an envelope, wrote his name on the front and set it on the nightstand.
“What are you doing?”
Michael’s voice made me jump. I turned to find him watching me from the bed.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I was. Then I felt your side empty.” He sat up. “What are you doing?”
“Writing you a letter,” I said, and his eyebrows shot up, so I admitted, “In case I don’t wake up.”
“You’re going to wake up, Claudie.”
“Probably. By some extreme miracle. But just in case—”
“No.” He got out of bed and crossed to me. He took the envelope from my hands. “You don’t get to write me goodbye letters,” he said softly. “Not tonight.”
“Michael—”
“If you’re writing one, I’m writing one back.” He grabbed paper and pen. He started writing before I could argue.
I watched him write. His hand moved across the page, confident and steady. I watched him with misty eyes as he poured something onto paper that I couldn’t read from this angle.
When he finished, he folded it and put it in an envelope, writing my name on it.
“There,” he said. “Now neither of us is reading these because you’re going to survive and we’re going to laugh about this later.”
“But what if I don’t survive?” I whispered, barely getting the words out.
My throat felt tight, like the words were cutting their way through instead of leaving gently.
“I know what everyone is doing. You’re all trying to make me braver than I am.
You’re giving me hope.” I swallowed. “But we all know there’s a very real chance—a bigger one, actually—that I won’t survive.
And it’s a chance we have to consider. And I’m…
” My voice broke, the rest of the sentence collapsing under its own weight. “I’m scared, Michael.”
He didn’t rush to answer. He didn’t interrupt or soften it with something easy. Instead, he moved closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him beside me, solid and real.
“I know you are,” he said quietly. “I am too. We all are.” His thumb brushed over my knuckles, slow and deliberate, like he was anchoring himself as much as me. “But being scared doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you understand what’s at stake.”
I shook my head. “What if hope just makes it hurt more?”
“Then we let it hurt,” he said. “Because pretending it doesn’t exist won’t protect you. And it won’t protect me either.” He looked at me then, really looked—no shields, no distance. “I won’t lie to you and tell you everything will be fine. I can’t promise that.”
My chest tightened.
“But I can promise this,” he continued. “No matter how this turns out, you won’t face it alone.
Not the fear. Not the waiting. Not the pain.
If there’s a chance—any chance at all—you take it.
And if the worst happens…” His voice faltered, just slightly.
“Then every moment before that still mattered. You still mattered.”
Tears slipped free before I could stop them.
Michael leaned his forehead against mine. “You don’t have to be brave,” he whispered. “You just have to stay. Stay scared. Stay hopeful. Stay here with me, one day at a time. I’ll carry the rest if you need me to.”
I looked at the letters on the table. “If I really don’t make it, then…”
He followed my gaze and said, “I’ll read yours and you’ll read mine and we’ll both feel stupid for being so morbid.” He looked at me and smiled. “Now, when you wake up from surgery, the first thing you’re going to see is me. And then we’re going to plan the rest of our lives.”
“You sound very certain.”
“I’m not certain of the future. But I’m certain that I love you enough to hope with everything I have.”
I wanted his certainty. Wanted to believe that wanting something badly enough could make it true.
He pulled me up from the chair and led me back to bed. His arms held me while I tried and failed to sleep.
At some point I must have dozed because suddenly it was morning and Michael was shaking me gently.
“Time to get up,” he said. “We need to be at the hospital in two hours.”
Two hours until I might die.
I got up and went through the motions. Shower. Clothes which Michael helped me with.
Michael drove us to the hospital in the pre-dawn quiet, the world still half-asleep around us. Neither of us spoke much. What was there to say?
My family was waiting when we arrived. My parents looked nervous. Jack looked like he hadn’t slept. Pauline stood beside him, her hands twisting together.
They prepped me. Hospital gown. IV. Monitors. Dr. Matthews appeared to go over everything one more time.
“This is still your choice,” She said. “If you’ve changed your mind—”
“I haven’t.”
“Okay. We’ll take good care of you.”
They wheeled me toward the operating room and Michael walked beside the gurney. His hand found mine and held tight.
At the doors where he had to stop, I gripped his hand tighter, refusing to let go yet.
Panic was rising in my throat. This was it. This was the moment. Once I went through those doors, I was either coming back or I wasn’t.
Michael leaned down close, his hand cupping my face.
“I’ll be right outside waiting,” he said. “This isn’t goodbye. This is just see-you-soon. You’re going to survive this. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known and you’re going to wake up and we’re going to see the world together. Santorini. Bali. All of it. I promise.”
“I love you,” I said. My voice was shaking.
“I love you too. I’ll keep loving you through this, and after, and always.” He kissed my forehead, and he lingered for a while. I could feel him hesitate to let me go,
Then they took me through the doors.
I looked back once. Michael stood in the hallway watching me disappear, fear carved into every line of his face. My gaze lingered on my family around him. Everyone I loved gathered in one place.
The doors closed.
The surgical team moved around me. Someone adjusted my IV while another nurse prepped the anesthesia.
Dr. Matthews appeared in scrubs. “Ready?”
“No,” I said honestly, my voice trembling.
She almost smiled. “No one ever is. We’ll take care of you.”
“If I don’t make it—”
“We’re gonna do our best to make sure you make it.”
“But if I don’t, tell Michael I meant what I said in the letter. Tell him to keep living.”
“I’ll tell him. But you’re going to tell him yourself when you wake up.”
The anesthesiologist appeared. “I’m going to count backwards from ten. You’ll be asleep before I get to one.”
“Okay.”
“Ten… nine… eight…”
I thought about Michael standing in the hallway. My family waiting. The beach and the ferris wheel and every moment that led me here.
“Seven. Six…”
I thought about waking up. About surviving. About getting more time—just a little more time.
“Five. Four…”
I thought about not waking up. About the letters on Michael’s nightstand. About everything left unsaid.
“Three…”
I wanted more time. More mornings. More years. More him.
“Two…”
I wasn’t ready to die. Not yet. Not like this.
“One.”
And then everything went dark.