The Unwinding of the Miracle - Julie Yip-Williams Page 0,122

treatments. At this point, I don’t need scans to tell me if a treatment is working. I can feel the cancer growing. It’s not working. I will stop soon, and then it will be time for hospice. Unless, of course, my baser instincts kick in despite my best intentions.

I’ve always known that I would bring in hospice early, that I wanted the hospice people to get to know me and my family. I’ve always wanted to die at home and not in the hospital. And in order to ensure that, hospice must be brought onboard early enough. Too many times, I’ve heard of patients going to the hospital to deal with symptoms and then not being able to get out. It can be difficult to escape the vortex of cascading complications that can arise from end-stage cancer and the interventions performed in hospitals. I also see families asking for privacy in the end as they close ranks around the dying. I think this in large part stems from a culture that is terrified of dying and death, a culture that likes to hide or run in shame from death and pretend until the very end like it isn’t happening and isn’t real. I have always known that for me, this is not the right choice. I love people. I love life. I want to be surrounded by both as I bid my final farewell. To the extent I can exert control, I will die on my terms. That I have promised myself. I want my children to be with me. I want my home to be filled with family and friends and laughter and tears and stories and food, the very best parts of life. I want my children to learn by the example of my death not to be afraid of death, to understand it as simply a part of life. I want them to see how loved their mother was and that, by extension, they are safe and loved. I know a death that is at once lively and peaceful and filled with love will be one of the greatest gifts I can give them. For four years, I’ve been planning my death, and now I finally get to execute my plan.

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Love

Dear Josh,

Sometimes, I can feel the weight of your stare as I feign sleep in those torturous minutes before I fully awaken. Your grip on my hand has tightened; that’s what probably woke me in the first instance. I can feel your love. I can feel you trying desperately to save the image of my face in some special place that might be immune to the amnesiac effects of time. I can feel your fear as you unwillingly envision a life without me—how will you comfort the girls like I can; how will you plan the birthday parties and arrange the girls’ schedules; how will you fix all the things that break in our home; how will you do all this while still working your demanding job and maintaining the stellar course of your career? In turn, in my own mind’s eye, I can see you cleaning out our closets and bathroom drawers to dispose of all my things. I can see you bringing flowers to my grave. I can see you watching what were once “our” favorite TV shows after the girls have gone to bed, in the dark, alone, the television casting its eerie blue light on your face, which seems to be permanently sculpted in sadness. My heart aches for you, but I don’t know how to help you. Beyond solving all the logistical problems caused by my death, what can I say or do to alleviate the pain, to make losing me easier for you, if that is even possible? Just as I felt compelled to write the girls a letter, I feel a compulsion to do the same for you in an attempt to help, for to not do so would be a great failure by me as your wife.

When I hug you now, when I scratch your head, when I lie in the crook of your arm, I feel distinctly the finitude of our time together in this life. I try so hard to feel and remember everything I can in a single touch, every pore in my body and soul open to you and you alone, as if I can somehow brand your skin, your hair, your very essence into my soul, so I can take you