The Last Lecture

The Last Lecture
would soon die, and in my inability to stop being rationally focused, I
found myself thinking: “Shouldn’t a room like this, at a time like this,
have a box of Kleenex? Wow, that’s a glaring operational flaw.”
There was a knock on the door. Dr. Wolff entered, a folder in his
hand. He looked from Jai to me to the CT scans on the computer, and
he knew what had just happened. I decided to just be preemptive. “We
know,” I said.
By that point, Jai was almost in shock, crying hysterically. I was
sad, too, of course, and yet I was also fascinated by the way in which
Dr. Wolff went about the grim task before him. The doctor sat next to
Jai to comfort her. Calmly, he explained to her that he would no
longer be working to save my life. “What we’re trying to do,” he said,
“is extend the time Randy has left so he can have the highest quality of
life. That’s because, as things now stand, medical science doesn’t have
anything to offer him to keep him alive for a normal life span.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Jai said. “You’re telling me that’s it? Just like
that, we’ve gone from ‘we’re going to fight this’ to ‘the battle is over’?
What about a liver transplant?”
No, the doctor said, not once the metastasis occurs. He talked
about using palliative chemo—treatment that’s not intended to be
curative, but could ease symptoms, possibly buying a few months—and
about finding ways to keep me comfortable and engaged in life as the
end approached.
The whole horrible exchange was surreal for me. Yes, I felt stunned
and bereft for myself and especially for Jai, who couldn’t stop crying. But
a strong part of me remained in Randy Scientist Mode, collecting facts
and quizzing the doctor about options. At the same time, there was
another part of me that was utterly engaged in the theater of the
[69]