They finally reached St. Patrick’s Cathedral, arriving with pretty much everyone else in the vicinity who’d come for the same reason. The crowd was so large that they were stranded halfway down the block, and though Maggie couldn’t see the singers, she could hear them thanks to the large speakers they had set up. Mark, though, was disappointed, and she realized she should have warned him this would happen. She’d learned upon moving to New York that attending an event in the city and really seeing the event were often two entirely different things. In her first year here she’d ventured out to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. She’d found herself wedged against a building, surrounded by hundreds, and stuck in place for hours, her primary view the backs of people’s heads. She’d had to crane her neck to see the famous balloons and had awakened the following morning so sore that she’d had to visit a chiropractor.
Ah, the joys of city living, right?
The choir, even if unseen, sounded rapturous to her ears, and as she listened, Maggie found herself reflecting back on the last few days with a light sense of wonder. She’d seen The Nutcracker, decorated a tree, shipped gifts to her family, skated at Rockefeller Center, seen the window displays on Fifth Avenue, and now this. She was checking off once-in-a-lifetime experiences with someone she’d come to care about, and sharing the story of her past had lifted her spirits.
But as the floatiness started to fade, she felt fatigue setting in, and she knew it was time to go. She squeezed Mark’s arm, signaling that she was ready. They’d listened to four carols by then, and turning, he began leading her back through the crowd that had formed behind them. When they finally had breathing space, he stopped.
“How about some dinner?” he asked. “I’d love to hear the rest of the story.”
“I think I need to lie down for a while.”
He knew enough not to argue with her. “I can ride with you.”
“I’ll be okay,” she said.
“Do you think you’ll make it to the gallery tomorrow?”
“I’ll probably stay home. Just in case.”
“Will I see you Christmas Eve? I want to give you your gift.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Of course I did. It’s Christmas.”
She thought about it, finally deciding Why not? “Okay,” she offered.
“Do you want to meet at work? Or have dinner? Whatever is easiest for you.”
“I tell you what—why don’t I have dinner delivered to the gallery? We can eat under the tree.”
“Can I hear the rest of your story?”
“I’m not sure you’ll want to. It’s not really a holiday story. It gets very sad.”
He turned, raising his hand to hail her an oncoming cab. As the taxi pulled over, he glanced at her without pity. “I know,” he said simply.
*
For the second night in a row, Maggie slept in the clothes she’d been wearing.
The last time she’d peeked at the clock, it was a few minutes before six. Dinner hour in much of America; still-at-the-office hour in much of NYC. She woke more than eighteen hours later feeling weak and dehydrated, but thankfully pain-free.
Not willing to risk a relapse, she took a single pain pill before wobbling her way to the kitchen, where she forced down a banana, along with a piece of toast, which made her feel slightly better.
After taking a bath, she stood in front of the mirror, barely recognizing herself. Her arms were stick thin, her collarbones bulged beneath her skin like tent supports, and her torso sported numerous bruises, some of them deep purple. In her skeletal face, her eyes resembled an alien’s, bright and bewildered.
What she’d read about melanoma—and it felt like she’d read just about everything on the subject—suggested that there was no way to predict her final months. Some people had significant pain, requiring morphine via an IV drip; for others, it wasn’t debilitating. Some patients had worsening neurological symptoms while others were clear-headed up until the end. The location of the pain was as varied as the patients, which she supposed made sense. Once cancer metastasizes, it can go anywhere in the body, but Maggie had been hoping for the more pleasant version of dying. She could handle the loss of appetite and excessive sleep, but the prospect of excruciating pain frightened her. Once she moved to IV morphine, she knew she might never get out of bed again.
But the actually-being-dead part didn’t frighten her. Right now, she was too busy being inconvenienced for death to be anything but hypothetical. And who knew what it was actually like? Would she see the bright light at the end of a tunnel, or hear harps as she entered the pearly gates, or would she simply fade away? When she thought of it at all, she imagined it as akin to going to sleep without dreaming, except she’d never wake up. And, obviously, she wouldn’t care about not waking up because…well, because death made caring—or not caring—impossible.