The Coldest Winter I Ever Spent by Ann Jacobus

Author:Ann Jacobus [Jacobus, Ann]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction-Young Adult, Fiction, young adult fiction, suicide, mental illness, depression, anxiety, cancer, death with dignity, family, contemporary, San Francisco, California, mental health
ISBN: 9781728479170
Publisher: Lerner Publishing Group
Published: 2023-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

33

Monday, August 17

Aunt Fran calls me into her dim room around midmorning, usually her best time. James Taylor, singing about love, plays at low volume from her old boom box.

She says, “I have something important to talk to you about, sugar.”

Her face is all tight. Uh-oh.

I’m bleary-eyed from staying up late researching. “That’s fine because I have something to ask you too.” As good a time as any to announce my new plan.

She shifts beneath her blankets in discomfort.

“What’s your pain number?” I ask. “You took your pills, right?” The clock says two more hours before her next meds.

“Yes.”

I slide open her window a little to let some fresh air in and some stale, BenGay-rub-scented air out.

Aunt Fran points at the overstuffed chair beside her bed. “What were you going to ask me?”

I sit. Touch her hand. “I was thinking that both of us . . . could meet Dad in France. Like soon.”

Her eyebrows pop up.

I forge ahead. “In the south. I want us to go to the sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes.”

“Lourdes?” The H crease at the top of her nose deepens.

“It’s this town in southern France where there’s a shrine to the Virgin Mary. And a spring, or fountain or something.”

“Yes, I know it.”

“Where many verified miracles have occurred. Inoperable cancer cured! You won’t have to do anything. They’re all set up for sick people. They have a million hotels—I already found a really cute bed-and-breakfast. We can rent a car, and a wheelchair—”

“Del.” She shakes her head. “No. No miracles.”

“Why not?” She has the money for this kind of trip and loves to travel. She’s won’t do cannabis oil, proton therapy, hyperthermia treatments, or any of the other cures I’ve suggested. And we need more than just the diet.

“I don’t want to prolong this. The diagnosis and my prognosis are not . . . arguable.” She grips the blueberry wool throw in her fists. “I’d—I’d like to take things into my own hands.”

“What are you talking about?” She won’t look at me. Her short hair sticks out like downy feathers.

Her alarm clock tick-tocks. A wailing siren passes right beneath us on the street below.

We stare at each other.

“Do—do you mean suicide?”

“The proper term is ‘advancing the time of my death.’”

I clench my fists. “You’re fucking kidding me!”

“I’m very serious,” she says quietly.

“There’s no way I would do that!”

“I’m the one who would . . . do it.” She clasps her hands. “It’s legal . . . in Oregon. I just need help—to get it set up. I’ve lost the—” She pauses. “The . . . way to . . . set it up. The papers. The planes.” She gestures weakly with her hand.

“What about the special diet? You’re not even giving it a fair chance!”

She smooths the sheet in her lap, then says quietly, “Dr. Smith is listed . . . prominently on QuackWatch.”

“What?” It’s probably another Dr. Smith. “I’ve seen the studies that prove that flaxseed oil works on cancer cells!”

“Darlin’, a lot of people out there are happy to .

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