Excerpt from We All Want Impossible Things by Catherine Newman, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Prologue

"Edi. Are you sleeping?"

I'm whispering, even though the point is to wake her up. Her eyelids look bruised, and her lips are pale and peeling, but still she's so gorgeous I could bite her face. Her dark hair is growing back in. "Wake up, my little chickadee," I whisper, but she doesn't stir. I look at Jude, her husband, who shrugs, runs an open palm over his handsome, exhausted face.

"Edichka," I say a little louder, Slavically. She opens her eyes, squinches them shut again, then snaps them back open, focuses on my face, and smiles. "Hey, sweetheart," she says. "What's up?"

I smile back. "Oh, nothing," I say. A lie! "Jude and I were just making some plans for you."

"Plans like banh mi from that good banh mi place?" she says. "I'm starving." She rubs her stomach over her johnny. "No. Not starving. Not even hungry, actually. I just want to taste something tasty, I guess." She tries to sit up a little and then remembers the remote, and the top of her bed rises with the mechanical whirring that would be on my Sloan Kettering soundtrack mixtape, if I made one. Also the didgeridoo groaning of the guy in the room next door. The sunny lunch-tray person saying, "Just what the doctor ordered!" even when it's weirdly unwholesome "clear liquids" like black coffee and sugar-free Jell-O.

"Banh mi can definitely be arranged," I say. I'm stalling, and Jude sighs. He pulls a chair over by her head, sits in it.

"Awesome," Edi says. She fishes a menu from the stack crammed into her bedside drawer. "Extra spicy mayo. No daikon."

"Edi," I say. "I have been madly in love with you for forty-two years. Am I going to suddenly forget your abiding hatred of radishes?"

She smiles dotingly at me, flutters her eyelashes.

"Wait," I say. "Extra spicy mayo? Or extra-spicy mayo?"

She says, "What?" and Jude says, "Edi." She hears it in his voice, turns to him and says, "What?" again, but I'm already starting to cry a little bit.

"Shit," she says. "No, no. You guys." She wrings her hands. "I'm not ready for this. Whatever this is. What is this?"



Here's what this is: Out in the hallway, Jude had asked about Edi's treatment. "Isn't she supposed to get her infusion today?" he'd said, and the nurse had said cheerfully, "Nope! We're all done with that." And so, it seemed, we were. Nobody exactly talked to us about this decision. It was like it had already happened, in some other time and place. You order a burger and the kitchen makes an executive decision in the back. "We're out of burgers," your server says. "There's just this plate of nothing with a side of morphine and grief."

Ellen, the social worker, had taken Jude and me into her office to give us a make the most of her remaining days talk—while simultaneously clarifying that this most-making would need to happen not there. We were confused. "I'm confused," I said, and Ellen had nodded slowly, crinkled her eyes into a pitying smile, and handed us a pamphlet called "Next Steps, Best Steps." It was about palliative care. Hospice. "But these are the worst steps," I said, because apparently nothing is too obvious for me to mention, and Ellen passed me a box of tissues. "I feel like I'm mad at you, but also like this might not be your fault," I said, truthfully, and she laughed and said, "I promise you I understand." I liked her after that.

Ellen tried to help us figure out what to do. Edi and Jude's son, Dashiell, is seven and has already spent three of those years living with his mom's illness. Ellen wondered if bringing her home for hospice care might simply be too traumatizing, and suggested that inpatient care might be a better option, given the likelihood of a swift and harrowing end-of-life scenario. This seemed not unsensible. Dash's last visit had been a disaster: when Edi bent to kiss him good-bye, blood had poured out of her nose and terrified him. It had just been a garden-variety nosebleed, it turned out, but Dash, already fragile, was stained. Literally stained. Figuratively scarred. "You might even have him say good-bye to her sooner than later," Ellen offered. "So that he isn't worrying about when it's coming."

Excerpted from We All Want Impossible Things by Catherine Newman. Copyright © 2022 by Catherine Newman. Excerpted by permission of Harper. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.