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Authors: Susan Fanetti
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still her doctors had been surprised—and not the kind of surprise that came with streamers and noisemakers—at how quickly It had infiltrated so much of her body. Again, they’d suggested an intensive course of ‘treatment,’ but Analisa knew what that ‘treatment’ meant. She knew how it felt, what the ‘treatment’ did to her. And now she also knew that It wasn’t going anywhere, regardless. It had moved in to stay. But she would not end her life lying in a bed, full of tubes, too weak to enjoy what she had left.
Nope.
Though what she was living now wasn’t that much different. Since the night at the bar, almost two weeks had passed. Two weeks in which her father had doted on her but had not let her out of his sight. Two weeks lost, stuck at home with her father and It, and occasionally her brother. She was marinating in her impending doom. What she wanted to do was take her destiny in her hands.
The door opened behind her. “Analie, come inside. It’s too cold, and Marica’s got lunch ready.”
She ignored him. Her stomach hurt, and not just because It was in there ransacking the joint. Impatience and frustration made it ache. Sorrow. The clock was fucking ticking.
Her father walked up and stood next to the chair she was in. “Sweetheart, please.”
“I just want to sit out here alone, Daddy. I’m not hungry.”
Instead of leaving her to her thoughts, he sat in the nearest chair and leaned in. “You haven’t eaten at all today. Are you feeling sick? Do you need something? Would tea help?”
‘Something.’ Yes, she needed ‘something.’ She turned and looked at him and his sad damn eyes. “I need you to let me live my death. Tick-tock, Daddy.”
He winced. “I hate it when you talk like that.”
At that, her frustration gave way to real anger. “Like what? Like a realist? Daddy, I’m dying. Right now. Sitting here right now , It is running around breaking things inside me. Wrapping me in blankets and making me tea is not going to change that. The time I have left can be counted in weeks , and you want me to just sit here and wait to die. It sucks.”
When he got mad in response, she was surprised—but also pleased. Anger was so much better than his sad-sackery. “And starting fights, getting punched in the face, marking up your beautiful skin, who knows what else? That’s how you want to—as you say—‘live your death’? It’s ridiculous.”
“What I want is to be left alone to make my own choices. The bar thing was dumb. I get that. I won’t do something else like that. But I want to live what I have of my life the way I want to live it. I’m the one who’s dying—I should get to choose.”
His anger gone, he reached out and picked up her hand. “What about the people you’re going to leave behind? What about your brother and me? We already lost your mom. We don’t want to lose you any faster than we have to. When you go away, we have to stay behind.”
Analisa thought of something Nolan had said to her that first day, sitting on the brick wall in the office park: hurting was scarier than dying. That was an absolute truth, she thought. Then, she’d been thinking about her own hurt—her fear of crashing the bike, her fear of the pain she’d feel when her end was nigh. But what her father had just said made her see it in a new way. There was a way in which she was getting the better deal. When she was dead, her pain would be over. Her suffering was finite, its limit fast approaching. That wasn’t true for the people who loved her and would live on without her.
She wondered what that would be like. She’d gotten sick so soon after her mom had died that her period of grief had had a strangely concrete ending. She still missed her mom, she still thought about her every day. She missed her, but she didn’t exactly mourn her. Her mother had quickly become a presence in her head, while she’d focused on
Nope.
Though what she was living now wasn’t that much different. Since the night at the bar, almost two weeks had passed. Two weeks in which her father had doted on her but had not let her out of his sight. Two weeks lost, stuck at home with her father and It, and occasionally her brother. She was marinating in her impending doom. What she wanted to do was take her destiny in her hands.
The door opened behind her. “Analie, come inside. It’s too cold, and Marica’s got lunch ready.”
She ignored him. Her stomach hurt, and not just because It was in there ransacking the joint. Impatience and frustration made it ache. Sorrow. The clock was fucking ticking.
Her father walked up and stood next to the chair she was in. “Sweetheart, please.”
“I just want to sit out here alone, Daddy. I’m not hungry.”
Instead of leaving her to her thoughts, he sat in the nearest chair and leaned in. “You haven’t eaten at all today. Are you feeling sick? Do you need something? Would tea help?”
‘Something.’ Yes, she needed ‘something.’ She turned and looked at him and his sad damn eyes. “I need you to let me live my death. Tick-tock, Daddy.”
He winced. “I hate it when you talk like that.”
At that, her frustration gave way to real anger. “Like what? Like a realist? Daddy, I’m dying. Right now. Sitting here right now , It is running around breaking things inside me. Wrapping me in blankets and making me tea is not going to change that. The time I have left can be counted in weeks , and you want me to just sit here and wait to die. It sucks.”
When he got mad in response, she was surprised—but also pleased. Anger was so much better than his sad-sackery. “And starting fights, getting punched in the face, marking up your beautiful skin, who knows what else? That’s how you want to—as you say—‘live your death’? It’s ridiculous.”
“What I want is to be left alone to make my own choices. The bar thing was dumb. I get that. I won’t do something else like that. But I want to live what I have of my life the way I want to live it. I’m the one who’s dying—I should get to choose.”
His anger gone, he reached out and picked up her hand. “What about the people you’re going to leave behind? What about your brother and me? We already lost your mom. We don’t want to lose you any faster than we have to. When you go away, we have to stay behind.”
Analisa thought of something Nolan had said to her that first day, sitting on the brick wall in the office park: hurting was scarier than dying. That was an absolute truth, she thought. Then, she’d been thinking about her own hurt—her fear of crashing the bike, her fear of the pain she’d feel when her end was nigh. But what her father had just said made her see it in a new way. There was a way in which she was getting the better deal. When she was dead, her pain would be over. Her suffering was finite, its limit fast approaching. That wasn’t true for the people who loved her and would live on without her.
She wondered what that would be like. She’d gotten sick so soon after her mom had died that her period of grief had had a strangely concrete ending. She still missed her mom, she still thought about her every day. She missed her, but she didn’t exactly mourn her. Her mother had quickly become a presence in her head, while she’d focused on
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