Three
The news was very, very bad.
Frances had been so sure the teenaged doctor had it all wrong that she’d gone to the oncologist just to spite her (a geriatric oncologist, mind you, as if her age disqualified her for the real oncologist).
The doctor was at least in his fifties, and after all the tests, all the checking and double-checking and checking again, it had come back just as Google had said it would: cancer.
Specifically, brain cancer.
And she was a touch dehydrated.
Dr. Jackson told her with great empathy that she probably had six to eight months depending on her overall health, and maybe they could squeeze out another six months with an aggressive treatment plan, but the bottom line was the same—the cancer was in a place that was mostly inoperable, and she was going to die. Bastard.
After the initial shock wore off (to be clear, it never wore off, just knitted itself into every membrane so that her every waking thought was I have cancer), she realized she had decisions to make.
From what she understood, the standard of care to prolong her life was to go all out with surgery with what parts they could reach, then go in guns blazing on what remained with chemo, and possibly radiation, and then …
blah blah blah. Frances had zoned out because she’d been trying to grapple with this terribly upsetting news.
She’d told Dr. Jackson she had to absorb it, and talk to her family, and that she’d give his office a call in a couple of days.
It had been a week since that day, and not only had she not told Aaron, but she had also not called the oncology office.
In her defense, she’d been too busy thinking.
She kept coming back to the fact that Dr. Jackson hadn’t asked her if she wanted to prolong her life.
Was it a given that she did? Did everyone want to prolong their life with a diagnosis like this?
Frances wasn’t so sure. She felt pretty darn good now, and the very thought of “aggressively” making herself sick to gain an extra six months didn’t sound like a good deal.
She’d watched too many people in her life suffer through cancer treatment to think her treatment would be anything but a shit show.
Nick had died of Lou Gehrig’s disease, and that was the most excruciating thing she’d ever been through.
They’d done everything they could to prolong his life, and he’d lived those last months in agonizing pain.
She couldn’t imagine going through it all again, only this time, as the one who was sick.
She couldn’t imagine her son watching another parent go through it all again. She couldn’t imagine the expense.
Which was why she hadn’t told her son yet.
Somehow, she and Nick had managed to create an overachiever, a son who wanted to take care of everything, and if given an inch would take care of all the miles ahead.
He’d called after her fall, before she’d seen the oncologist, sounding stern and slightly panicked. “Mom!”
She’d just stepped out of the bath, wrapped in a thick bathrobe, her hair in a thicker towel, annoyed that the damn bandage on the back of her head was going to be an issue with styling. “Oh, honey, I was going to call you after dinner.”
“After? I’ve been worried sick! Marjorie said you had a head injury.”
“I don’t have a head injury,” she said soothingly. (She had a head injury.) “A slight concussion, that’s all.” (With a little cancer thrown in for good measure.)
“A concussion?” Her poor son was practically yelling. “Do you know how dangerous concussions are for the elderly?”
“You don’t have to make it sound like I’ve got one foot in the grave.” (She apparently had one foot in the grave.) “Calm down, Aaron. I’m fine. They sent me home, and they wouldn’t have done that if they thought I was in any danger.”
That appeased him somewhat. “Okay, well, who is looking after you?”
“No one! I don’t need looking after. I’ve had concussions before and it’s not a big deal.”
“You’re not making me feel better,” he said. “Did they ask for follow-up tests? What if it’s a vision thing, or a problem with motor skills? It could even be the early stages of dementia,” Aaron said. “People don’t fall for no reason.”
“Dementia! You stop that right now, Aaron Nicholas Deluca. People fall. I fell because I slipped on some spilled soda and not because of anything else. Do not try to make this worse than it is.”
There was a long pause at the other end.
“You’re right,” he conceded. “I’m sorry, Mom.
I just need to know you’re okay. I worry with you so far away.
Jackie and I’ve been talking, and we both think it would be so much better if you were closer to us and the girls.
There are some great senior living options in Omaha. ”
Alarm bells had sounded in Frances’s head. He’d made noises before about her being closer, but this was the first time he’d said, “senior living options in Omaha.”
“I’m sure there are,” she said. “But they’re in Omaha.”
“You might really like it here,” Aaron had insisted. “The weather has Houston’s beat.”
Every place in the world had Houston’s weather beat.
“At least think about it—you’d be close to your grandkids.”
That was not the selling point her son thought it was.
Frances loved her granddaughters, adored them, and she could see how this idea would make sense to anyone else.
She had, after all, complained about being bored and wanting something more in her life.
Didn’t that usually mean more time with grandkids?
But living in Omaha waiting for her grandkids to visit, especially as they grew older and developed their own lives, and then when they did visit, watching them watch their phones, wasn’t exactly what she had in mind.
She had in mind adventure. Life. Not waiting to die with a bunch of demented seniors sitting in front of Fox News, which was exactly what she’d be doing in Omaha.
And then Aaron had asked her what her bank password was. Frances, being a good mother, had rattled it off without a thought. “Kiknga$$52.”
Aaron had sighed heavily. “Seriously?”
“What? I’ve been kicking ass since 1952.”
“That’s your password for Netflix, Mom.”
“And Google. And . And Neiman Marcus. And—”
“You can’t have the same password for everything!”
“I don’t have the same password for everything. I also have kiss my ass 74 for some lesser sites.”
“Oh my God.” Aaron sounded like the most tortured son of all the sons in history. “Do you not realize what a walking security risk you are?”
He’d probably keel over if he knew she’d had the same bank pin number for forty years. “Wait. Why do you need the bank password?” she’d asked, ignoring her security risk evaluation and tuning into his initial request.
“To get a complete picture of the finances we’re working with.
I already have the login to your investment accounts, but with your banking information I’ll figure what kind of senior living you can afford.
I know your finances took a hit when Dad got sick.
I can help, but I’ve got to be careful with the girls’ college coming up. ”
That was the precise moment Frances knew she was not moving to Omaha.
If she did, she would never know her password again.
Or how much money she had. Aaron would take care of everything so all she’d have to do was exist and die.
“Aaron, honey, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t want to move to Omaha. ”
“I know, Mom. But at some point, you’re going to need help.”
“I understand. But I don’t need it this minute.”
“I’m not saying pack up and move. But it’s not that far in the future. I would feel much better with you nearby rather than a two-hours-plus flight away. Just think about it, and in the meantime, I’ll run some numbers.”
It surprised her that he hadn’t done so while they’d been on the phone.
She’d raised a far too efficient and confident son.
But that night, because her head was beginning to pound, and she wanted a drink, she wanted to end the conversation.
“Tell you what—I’ll come for Thanksgiving, and we’ll discuss it.
Until then, I will think about it seriously. Fair enough?”
“That’s months away.” Aaron sighed with resignation. “But okay, Mom.”
To her credit, since that call, she’d thought about it seriously. In fact, it was all she’d thought about since seeing Dr. Jackson, and now she was damn sure she wasn’t going to spend the time she had left in Omaha.
Currently, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom, surrounded by papers and pictures she’d dumped out of two boxes, a tumbler of margarita at her fingertips.
She was trying to make sense of all that would have to be done before she kicked the bucket.
Cashed in her chips. Bought the farm. Bit the dust. Gave up the ghost. She was still debating which euphemism she was going with.
When you’d had a few drinks, they all sounded amusing.
She supposed it helped to have a sense of humor at a time like this, and nothing could bring out her sense of humor like a good, stout margarita. Or two or three.