Page 65 of Don’t Tell Me How to Die

SIXTY-THREE

It was the Tuesday morning after Labor Day, and Lizzie and I were standing outside Dr. Byrne’s office waiting for someone to show up and unlock the door.

“Thanks for coming,” I said.

“Are you kidding?” Lizzie said. “You have this adorable habit of hiding the details of your life in a box in your attic. How could I say no when you finally invited me to peek inside? I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” I said. “I only picked you because you’re a doctor. Also, I know you, and even if the prognosis is terrible, you won’t say anything that sounds like a Hallmark card.”

“In that case, I’m glad I decided to go to medical school instead of pursuing my dream to study the poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”

“Good morning, ladies.” It was Dr. Byrne. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “We were early.”

“How was your weekend?” he said, unlocking the door.

“It was good,” I said. “I got to spend some quality time with my kids.”

“Well, let’s take a look at your blood tests and see if we can buy you a lot more quality time. The reports from both labs should be in by now.”

We followed him to his office, and he booted up his computer. “Here’s the first one,” he said, clicking the mouse.

He stared at the screen, scrolled, and finally frowned. “Shit,” he muttered.

“That bad?” I said.

“No, no, it’s just that our lab here at the hospital seems to be off their game. This is exactly why I went to Kensington for a second look. Give me a minute. I’m sure their report is in here somewhere... ah yes. Got it.”

He clicked again, scrolled some more, leaned into the screen, and slowly rubbed his chin. He didn’t say a thing, but I could sum up the look on his face in one word—dumbfounded.

“Lizzie,” he said. “Take a look at this and tell me what you make of it.”

Lizzie went behind his desk, took the mouse, and studied the screen. “It looks like a lab error,” she said.

“Except...” he said, taking the mouse and clicking. “Here’s our lab.” He clicked again. “And here’s Kensington.”

“Same numbers,” she said. “They couldn’t both get it wrong.”

“Guys,” I said. “Would one of you please tell me what’s going on? I’m dying here.”

Lizzie threw her arms around me. “No, you’re not dying.” She kissed me repeatedly on the cheek. “You beat it, girl! Against all odds—you beat it.”

I looked at Byrne. “I’m not sure what she’s saying.”

“She’s saying your blood tests came back perfectly normal. You don’t have any sign of the disease.”

I let go of Lizzie, slumped in my chair, and held my hands to my chest. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Byrne said. “If it were one lab, I’d retest you immediately. But this also went to Kensington, and their analysis is gospel.”

“So I don’t need chemo?”

“You don’t need anything. According to these numbers, you don’t show any indications of HLH.”

“I don’t understand. How... how did this happen? How is it even possible?” I said.

“I have no idea,” he said.

I pointed at my chart on his desk. “So how do you document my case for the insurance company?” I asked, half laughing, half crying. “ Patient is fine now. Don’t ask me how .”

“Oh, heck, physicians are a much more devious lot than that. When someone with a life-threatening disease is suddenly cured with no medical explanation, we have a catchall phrase we use. Two words: spontaneous remission.”

“Well, guess what?” I said. “I’ve got two better words: fucking miracle.”

“Sorry, sweetie,” Lizzie said. “The medical community doesn’t believe in miracles. If doctors wrote the Bible, it would say, ‘The Red Sea unexpectedly parted due to unusual atmospheric conditions.’ Or, ‘After three days Jesus’s condition was reevaluated, and he was upgraded from dead to resurrected.’”

The three of us were laughing now. Giddy. Celebratory.

“Noah,” I said, my adrenaline soaring, “do you remember when I asked if you ever buy lottery tickets, and you said only when the jackpot is ridiculously big. You know you won’t win, but you buy a ticket because it’s possible .”

“Of course I remember.”

“Well, I didn’t do chemo, or transfusions, or any of the things my mother did to beat this disease, but yet I’m cured. It’s like I won the lottery without even buying a ticket. In my book, that’s a bona fide miracle,” I said. “I only have one question: How long can it last?”

“There are no rules, no guidelines. It could be days, months, or the next fifty years.”

I looked at Lizzie. “Is he telling me the truth?”

“A thousand percent,” she said, her eyes watery. “And don’t ask me any more questions, or I’m going to start sounding like a Hallmark card.”

“Congratulations, Maggie,” Dr. Byrne said. “I want to check your blood on a monthly basis for a while, but the good news is you’ve got your life back. I just can’t tell you how.”

He didn’t have to tell me. I knew exactly how.

There were only three people on the planet who knew the truth behind my medical miracle.

And now one of them was dead.