Your cancer is not going away, Hazel. But we’ve seen people live with your level of tumor penetration for a long time.”
(I did not ask what constituted a long time. I’d made that mistake before.)
“I know that coming out of the ICU, it doesn’t feel this way, but this fluid is, at least for the time being, manageable.”
“Can’t I just get like a lung transplant or something?” I asked.
Dr. Maria’s lips shrank into her mouth. “You would not be considered a strong candidate for a transplant, unfortunately,” she said.
I understood: No use wasting good lungs on a hopeless case. I nodded, trying not to look like that comment hurt me.
My dad started crying a little. I didn’t look over at him, but no one said anything for a long time,
so his hiccuping cry was the only sound in the room.
I hated hurting him. Most of the time, I could forget about it, but the inexorable truth is this:
They might be glad to have me around, but I was the alpha and the omega of my parents’ suffering.
Just before the Miracle, when I was in the ICU and it looked like I was going to die
and Mom was telling me it was okay to let go, and I was trying to let go but my lungs kept searching for air,
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