“She’s probably going to live to be a hundred,” Hank says frequently—and dismally.

He’s probably right. But whenever he brings it up, Meredith duly points out that he’s lucky to have her, having lost her own mother when her kids were young, and now facing her own mortality at this age.

“I know. I just . . . I’m worried about having to deal with her while I’m trying to find a job, and worrying about health care . . . In the end, it always comes down to money we don’t have. Story of our lives, right?”

Money? In the end it comes down to money?

He doesn’t realize what he’s saying. That’s what she told herself. She knew he was just stressed, knew he loved her, knew that deep down his priorities were straight. He’s only human.

But—being only human herself—she couldn’t help saying, “Hey, you can always push me off a cliff and collect on my life insurance policy now instead of later. I mean, I’m a goner anyway, right? Why not put us both out of our misery—the sooner the better?”

His jaw dropped. “What kind of thing is that to say?”

“I’m sorry. I was kidding. Come on, Hank. Look at the bright side.”

To his credit, he didn’t say, “What bright side?”

If he had, she might have broken down and cried.

Instead, he’d hugged her and apologized. “I just want to make sure that we do everything we ever said we were going to do. No more putting things off—not because I don’t think you’re going to be around, but because . . . well, I don’t like to waste time. That’s all.”

Right. Because she doesn’t have time to waste.

Why dwell on the past when you can focus on the future?

That was the title of an optimistic blog post she wrote back when she was in treatment, still assuming she was going to beat this disease.

The piece was met with a mixed reaction from her followers, depending on their stage of the disease. Those who were in remission shared her mind-set. Those who were not—those with very little future left—didn’t want to think about what might lie ahead. They found comfort in reflecting upon happier times.

Now I get it. Now I’m sorry, so sorry. I wish I could have told some of them . . .

But it’s too late.

Too late . . . too late . . .

Meredith arches her back, stretching, trying to work out the kinks as a warm breeze flutters the peach and yellow paisley curtains at the window.

Through the screen she can hear only crickets, a distant dog barking, and the occasional sound of traffic out on the main road. The houses in this neighborhood may be of the no frills, cookie-cutter architectural style, but they’re set far apart on relatively large lots.

It was the quiet, private location that drew Meredith and Hank here well over three decades ago, when they were living downtown in a one-bedroom apartment with two toddlers and an oops baby on the way. This seventeen-hundred-square-foot house—with an eat-in kitchen, three bedrooms, and one and a half baths—seemed palatial by comparison.

They felt like they’d be living in the lap of luxury and promised each other they were going to grow old here.

But they’d outgrown it by the time the kids were teenagers with friends coming and going at all hours, and the house was showing wear and tear.

With three college tuitions looming in the near future, they couldn’t afford to add on or buy anything bigger. Not on Hank’s salary and what little she made working at a local daycare.

Somehow, they survived the old plumbing and wiring and constant repairs; the crowds of kids, the lack of privacy and closet space. Eventually their sons and daughter moved on, and although their finances aren’t terrific—thanks to the economy and a series of bad investments—at least Meredith and Hank grew back into their house.

It may be shabby, but it’s home.

Now, the mere idea of growing old anywhere at all . . . that in itself is a luxury.

“Ouch,” she says aloud, wincing again as she rolls her shoulders.

It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than stretching, a hot bath, or even lying down on the memory foam mattress they splurged on last September when Macy’s had a sale. That was when she was assuming their old, saggy mattress was causing the dull ache in her back. Hank’s back ached, too.

“I think it’s from giving the grandkids piggyback rides,” he said, “not the mattress.”

“Well, I haven’t given anyone piggyback rides. Trust me. It’s the mattress.”

The pricey new one was their early Christmas present to each other, along with the bright, cheerful paisley bedding and curtains that at least made it look like springtime in here all winter long . . . even after she found out the memory foam wasn’t going to cure her hurting bones. Nothing was.

She wishes now that she’d allowed her doctor to prescribe something for the pain during her last visit, but she was afraid she’d become dependent.

“That’s crazy,” Hank said when she told him. “Why would you think that?”

“You hear stories—all those celebrities addicted to prescription pain medication . . . and some of my blogger friends have had issues, too.”

Hank shook his head. “Next time you go, let them give you something. Why suffer?”

Suffer—such a strong word. Especially since she isn’t truly suffering. Not yet, anyway.

There will be plenty of time down the road for Percocet or morphine or whatever it is that doctors prescribe in the final stages . . .

Plenty of time—please, God, let there be plenty of time.

She’s not against pain medicine, but even now, while they still have insurance, their prescription plan isn’t the best. Her medications have already cost them a fortune out of pocket—and a lot of good they did.

Plain old ibuprofen might help, but Hank must have packed the Advil they keep in the master bathroom medicine cabinet. She just looked for it and it wasn’t there. She’s too tired to go hunt for another bottle.

What she really needs right now, as much as, if not more than, medication, is a good, stiff shot of Kentucky Bourbon. There’s plenty of that downstairs, courtesy of living a stone’s throw from some of the world’s finest distilleries.

In the old days—well, in the few years’ window after the kids were grown but before Meredith got sick—she and Hank spent some deliciously decadent weekend afternoons with fellow empty nester friends, sipping their way along the Bourbon trail that lies in the bluegrass hills south of Cincinnati.

She was never a big drinker; just a social one. But that came to a complete halt after her breast cancer diagnosis, when she became hypervigilant about everything she put into her body. She lightened up a bit after five years in remission, but last year a routine test betrayed a resurgence of microscopic cancer cells in her remaining breast tissue, and she went right back on the wagon. Not a drop of liquor, no soy products, only organic fruits and vegetables . . .

I don’t know about that, one of the other bloggers commented on a post where Meredith outlined her stringent habits. What good is being alive if you sacrifice all the fun stuff?

I’m just trying to improve my odds. To each his own, Meredith wrote back.

The blogger—that’s right, now she remembers, it was Elena—Elena wrote back: My mother was a health nut who did everything right, and she was hit by a train before her thirtieth birthday. I did everything right, and I was diagnosed with cancer right after mine. I have to admit: I’m sick of being good.

Meredith understood how Elena felt. But she hoped Elena understood why she herself wasn’t—isn’t—taking any chances.

Certainly not now that the cancer has metastasized to her bones. But of course, Elena doesn’t know about that.

“How long do I have?” Meredith asked the oncologist matter-of-factly when she first got the news.