How to Save a Life Read Free

glasses strides in holding a manila folder. He shakes my hand briskly and settles in behind his desk.
    “Miss Cooper, I have a bit of bad news,” he says without any preamble.
    It seems he’s waiting for a response, so I manage to croak out, “Yes?” over the lump in my throat.
    “I’m afraid that you have an aggressive glioblastoma. It’s actually quite extraordinary that you’ve continued to function without any major side effects aside from the headaches. It has to do with the location of the tumor, but to be honest, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
    I stare at him. “You’re telling me I have aggressive brain cancer?”
    “I’m afraid so,” he says, refocusing on me as some of the eager excitement seems to drain out of him. “Glioblastomas arise from the star-shaped cells, called astrocytes, which form the supportive structure of the brain. They’re supported by—”
    “I know,” I say abruptly. “I’m an oncology nurse. I know what a glioblastoma is. What’s the course of treatment here?”
    He blinks at me a few times, as if my direct question has unsettled him. “Miss Cooper, as I was beginning to explain, glioblastomas are generally very malignant and invasive. The median survival rate for these types of tumors in general is just shy of fifteen months.”
    I feel like someone has knocked the wind out of me. “You’re telling me I have just over a year to live?”
    “Er, no,” he says, looking back at his notes. “That’s just the median survival rate.”
    I feel a small surge of relief. I’m young. I’m healthy. I’m going to fight this and be all right. “Okay, good,” I say.
    “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood me,” he continues in the same flat tone. “Your cancer has already spread. If you’d come to me sooner, well . . .” He trails off, spreading his fingers wide in a gesture of defeat. “But you didn’t. And now it has advanced beyond the point of turning back, I’m afraid. We could try temozolomide with radiation therapy, but although it’s ultimately up to you, it’s not the course I’d recommend. It would only be buying you a small amount of time, and the side effects would be unpleasant.”
    “So what’s your recommendation?” I can hear my voice shaking.
    He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I suggest you reach out to your loved ones to make them aware of what’s happening. And then we can discuss hospice care to make the end of your life as comfortable as possible. I’m very sorry, Miss Cooper, but there’s nothing I feel I can do at this point. I could go on and on about potential experimental treatments, but frankly, I don’t think we have the time, and I feel I’d only be instilling false hope.”
    “But—” I begin. “What are you saying? How much time do you think I have left?”
    “A month. Maybe two at most.” He stands up as I sit frozen in place. “I’m very sorry, Miss Cooper,” he repeats. “Please call my office once you’re ready to discuss next steps.”
    And then he’s gone, taking all my hopes and dreams with him.

2
    I WALK OUTSIDE in a daze, emerging into an early Atlanta afternoon so bright that I have to momentarily close my eyes against the ridiculously cheerful sunshine.
    I feel like I’m floating, like I’m not quite in control of my own limbs, as I walk across the hospital’s freshly mowed front lawn and sit down on a wooden bench. I remember when they put these benches in two years ago. Logan and I had watched their progress from the window of his hospital room, and I’d wondered aloud, Who are the benches for? Who has the time to sit on them? Logan had replied solemnly, People who are waiting .
    Now I’m one of those people. But what am I waiting for? For the final days of my life to tick by? For the cells in my head to multiply and multiply some more, until they crowd out every piece of my brain that makes me who I am? Reach out to your loved ones , Dr. Frost had said. But who