Chapter 9 - The List of Things She Thought She'd Never Do
I wanted to refuse.
Every part of me wanted to tell Emily that she was being ridiculous.
That there would be another donor.
That the doctors would find a treatment.
That we would have years to do whatever she wanted.
But I had promised not to give her certainty where none existed.
So I picked up the notebook.
“Okay.”
She stared at me.
“Really?”
“Really.”
I uncapped the pen.
“What goes first?”
Emily looked toward the ceiling.
For a moment, I saw something almost playful move across her face.
“I want to see the ocean again.”
I wrote it down.
“The ocean.”
“At sunrise.”
“Very specific.”
“I don't want a crowded beach.”
“Understood.”
She thought for a moment.
“I want to eat a ridiculous amount of Italian food.”
I smiled.
“That's ambitious.”
“Real Italian food, Michael.”
“Not the place near our old apartment?”
She gave me a look.
“That place uses canned sauce.”
I gasped.
“Those are serious allegations.”
She laughed.
Then grew quiet.
“I want to see Rachel get married someday.”
I wrote it down.
“And I want Mom to stop treating every phone call like it might be the last one.”
My pen slowed.
Emily watched me.
“Put that down.”
I nodded.
I wrote it.
She continued.
“I want to plant something.”
“A tree?”
“Maybe.”
“A flower garden?”
She shook her head.
“Something that keeps growing whether I'm here or not.”
I looked at her.
She swallowed.
“And I want to visit Grace.”
My hand stopped.
Emily stared at the blanket.
“We never went together.”
“No.”
“I used to go by myself.”
I didn't know that.
“Where?”
“The memorial garden at the cemetery.”
She looked up.
“There's a small marker.”
My throat tightened.
“You arranged that?”
“Mom helped.”
I closed my eyes.
Another place I hadn't known existed.
Another part of our daughter's story I had missed.
Emily touched the notebook.
“Michael?”
I looked at her.
“I don't want this to become another thing you feel guilty about.”
I swallowed.
“I'm already guilty.”
“That's different from letting guilt decide everything.”
I nodded.
She was right.
Again.
Over the next hour, we made a list of fourteen things.
Some were large.
Some were wonderfully ordinary.
Watch a meteor shower.
Bake cinnamon rolls without burning them.
Ride a bicycle.
Spend a whole afternoon reading in a bookstore.
See the mountains in the fall.
Tell Rachel she was proud of her.
Take her mother somewhere that had nothing to do with hospitals.
Finish the half-written children's story in her desk drawer.
And number fourteen made me stop.
Have one completely ordinary day.
I looked up.
“What does that mean?”
Emily smiled sadly.
“No doctors.”
“No appointments.”
“No people asking how I feel.”
“No inspirational speeches.”
She looked toward the hallway.
“I want to wake up, complain about the weather, burn breakfast, watch television, and go to bed without thinking about dying.”
I stared at the page.
It was the simplest request on the list.
And perhaps the hardest.
I folded the notebook closed.
“We'll keep it.”
She nodded.
“Even if I get better?”
“Especially if you get better.”
Two weeks later, Emily's blood counts began recovering from treatment.
Her doctors scheduled another marrow assessment.
The results showed a significant response.
After further review, Dr. Morgan explained that the leukemia appeared to be in remission by conventional testing.
For the first time in months, Linda cried tears of relief.
Rachel flew in that weekend.
David brought a cake decorated with the words One Day at a Time.
Emily rolled her eyes.
“It's not my birthday.”
David shrugged.
“Then you're welcome to ignore it.”
But I noticed that she ate two bites.
The doctors remained cautious.
Remission was not the same as cure.
Emily's disease carried a substantial risk of returning.
The transplant team continued pursuing donor options.
Still, there was a possibility that she might eventually go home for a while.
Emily greeted the news with a silence none of us understood.
Later, after everyone left, I asked what she was thinking.
She looked toward the window.
“I thought I'd feel happier.”
“You don't?”
“I do.”
She hesitated.
“But when I was first diagnosed, I thought if I survived the treatment, everything would suddenly make sense.”
I listened.
“And it doesn't.”
She looked at me.
“I still don't know what I want my life to look like.”
I nodded.
“Then you don't have to decide yet.”
She smiled faintly.
“That's becoming your favorite sentence.”
“It's a good sentence.”
“It is.”
Then she reached for my hand.
“Michael, can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“If I get through this, what happens to us?”
I stopped breathing.
It was the question I'd avoided for weeks.
I loved her.
I knew that.
But love alone hadn't saved our marriage.
And her illness didn't erase everything we'd done to each other.
“I don't know,” I answered.
Emily looked down.
For one terrible moment, I thought I'd disappointed her.
Then she nodded.
“Good.”
I frowned.
“Good?”
She looked at me.
“Because I don't want us building another life out of things we're afraid to say.”
I squeezed her hand.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
Then Emily whispered, “I think I want to see a therapist.”
I nodded.
“I think that sounds like a good idea.”
She looked at me.
“For myself.”
“Of course.”
“And maybe someday…”
She hesitated.
“Maybe someday we could talk to someone together.”
I felt something fragile open in my chest.
“I'd like that.”
She nodded.
“But not because I'm sick.”
I met her eyes.
“Because we need to learn how to talk.”
“Exactly.”
Three days later, Emily was preparing for a possible discharge when a physician arrived with news.
New testing had detected a small population of leukemia cells that more routine tests had missed.
The team needed to reassess the treatment plan.
The remission was less reassuring than we'd believed.
And the transplant was becoming more urgent.
Emily looked at the doctor.
Then at me.
May you like
She didn't cry.
She simply whispered, “I knew it couldn't be that easy.”
