Things I Want My Daughters to Know_ A Novel - Elizabeth Noble [156]
Lying there, Mark realized that he was relaxed. Really relaxed. For the first time in a very long time he had nothing pressing on his brain. Nothing to worry him. Everyone was okay.
BARBARA’S JOURNAL
D-Day
I was reading what I’d written before—back at the beginning of all this. I said it would be sporadic, didn’t I, and I was right. I’ve no staying power. There’s not a lot to show, not a lot left behind. I hope some of it is helpful, or makes you smile or brings me back, for a second.
Because I’m going. I know that now. As of today. Don’t know when, don’t know how soon, although, truthfully, now that I know it will happen, I want it to happen soon. I’m afraid. I know you’re not supposed to be and I know it doesn’t help. But I am. I’m afraid of being in pain, and I’m afraid of being helpless and I’m afraid of lingering on and making everyone miserable. Since I’m going to die, I might as well get on with it. You can’t start to get better until I’m gone. And I’m your mum, so I want you to get better. I guess motherhood is the ultimate selflessness. You want to die quicker so your children can get over you.
No more treatment. No amazing hospitals in the States doing experimental medicine that might save me—eleventh hour. No miracles. No nothing. It’s ridiculous, but it is almost a relief. The treatment is so disgusting, and I’ve had enough. When she said so, today, the oncologist, when she started talking about palliative care and hospices, I almost exhaled. I think I knew it was coming. My body didn’t feel better. I don’t want to go into a hospice. I’m selfish about that. I want to be at home. I want to die at home. I was watching Deal or No Deal today. Won’t miss daytime television much, but I like that one. It’s like this. When you start that game, there are twenty-six suitcases to open, and all the possibilities exist, and you feel strong, and full of optimism and expectation. I was like this, at the beginning. I thought I could win the million. I won’t say beat the odds. The odds beat me. More people recover from my cancer than die from it. It’s a “good” cancer to get. Then the cases start opening, and the big numbers start disappearing, and ten minutes later you’d settle for a hundred thousand. I’ve had a horrid feeling since halfway through that my case contains the penny, and bugger me, it does. Does that make any sense? Or does comparing my relationship with this illness to a game show just prove that my morphine dosage needs looking at? I know what I mean, anyway.
Now I don’t have to worry about me anymore. I’m a foregone conclusion. I don’t have to wonder, like I was doing, whether there was any point booking a summer holiday for this year (there isn’t) or whether I’ll be around when Hannah starts driving (I won’t—not all bad, then), or whether I’ll have another birthday (probably not one I could enjoy), or another Christmas, or stuff like that. Because I won’t.
I just have to worry about all of you. And how you’ll be when I’m not here. Not just how you’ll feel about me dying. About how you’ll live your lives. About the decisions and directions and choices you’ll make. My beautiful girls. If you’ve read this, you know that it contains some—not all, but some—of the things I want my daughters to know.
And the greatest of these is love.
Please know that you had mine, unconditional, and powerful and awesome. So strong that I cannot believe it will die with me. I want to imagine it as a living thing that goes on beyond my body, and my death, as a vine that has grown and wound its way through the very core of all of you and cannot be uprooted or destroyed, but rather will hold you up erect when everything else is crumbling and withering inside you.
June
Lisa
The wedding was simple. Lisa had always assumed she’d be a bit of a Bridezilla. Designer dress, architectural flowers, cake with