The Second Bucket List

By Connie Myslik-McFadden

When a coffee mug slips out of Celeste O'Connell's hand and shatters on her tile floor, she realizes something is terribly wrong with her. The recent stumbles on the stairs, the deepening of her voice, the growing weakness in her right arm and leg, are part of a mysterious pattern of frightening changes in her body.

Celeste is diagnosed with a terminal illness. She struggles to accept her fate and the loss of everything she loves— her husband, her college-age children, her work, and the rugged, spectacular Montana environment in which she lives. She creates a bucket list and tries to complete everything on the list, but as her symptoms worsen she finds she cannot. A startling dream leads Celeste to a therapist who helps her explore her dreams and long-neglected beliefs about life and death.

"The Second Bucket List" is a poignant and uplifting story about the emotional and spiritual journey of a forty-nine year old woman who is diagnosed with ALS.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098333027

Book preview

The Second Bucket List

©2020, Connie Myslik-McFadden

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 978-1-09833-301-0

ISBN eBook: 978-1-09833-302-7

Also by Connie Myslik-McFadden:

Gathering the Soul: A True Story of Spiritual Healing

Imago

Bad Gramma

Willow’s Gift

This novel is dedicated to

Compassion and Choices,

those facing terminal illness

and their families, caretakers, and loved ones

Many thanks to my many mentors and spiritual teachers:

Betsy Halpern, Don Kalsched, Nathan Schwartz-Salant, Barbara Brennan, Roseanne Farano, Jason Shulman, and Dani Antman. I am also deeply grateful for Carl Jung and the Pathwork. A special thanks to Valerie Harms and Hugh McFadden for editorial help, and to Hospice of Bozeman Health for the opportunity to be with patients nearing the end of their physical lives.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 1

Celeste knew something was terribly wrong when her favorite coffee mug, the one with a stately bull elk embossed on it, slipped out of her hand and shattered on the tile floor. Hot coffee splattered on her jeans, sneakers, and the hall rug. She walked slowly back to the kitchen, numbed by knowing that there was a pattern she had been denying: the stumbles on the stairs, the gradual weakening in the muscles of her right arm, the subtle deepening of her voice.

What is happening to me?

There were rags under the kitchen sink, an old broom and dustpan in the broom closet. She cleaned up the mess, sweeping the shards into the dustpan first, then mopping up the coffee and placing a thick old towel over the stain on the beige rug and standing on it for a few minutes. The spill wouldn’t be noticeable. Taking off her sneakers, she ran water in the bathroom sink over the brown stains, carried the sneakers outside to dry in the sun. She gripped the bannister as she walked up the stairs to the master bedroom. Tossing her jeans into the laundry hamper, she found a clean pair in the walk-in closet and, grasping the stairway bannister again, walked cautiously down the stairs. She pulled on hiking boots, grabbed a light jacket, and stepped outside. The black labs, Bridger and Lucy, stretched and shook themselves, then ran around the fenced yard barking and chasing one another, excited by the prospect of a walk. The rooster, Lord Daphne, and his three-hen harem squawked loudly at the commotion.

Quiet! she yelled. No barking! No squawking!

There was a trail along the Yellowstone River not far from the house, and the dogs raced for it when she opened the gate. She forced herself to take one step, then another, dazed by the sure knowledge that she was ill in some mysterious way.

I need to see a doctor.

The early October sun was bright, the day warm. The pungent scent of fallen leaves tickled her nose. It was the kind of day she had always loved. Far down in the canyon the Yellowstone river lazed along, dividing itself around large boulders that had been exposed by summer drought. Beyond the river, brown rocky hills rose sharply from behind a narrow road that hugged the riverbank. To the south, jagged mountains pierced the azure sky. If she walked the trail for three miles she would reach the small tourist town of Gardiner and the entrance to Yellowstone National Park. But she had little desire to go to Gardiner except when she had psychotherapy clients in her office or needed groceries. She routinely turned around at an old one-lane bridge over the river about three quarters of a mile from home.

Two ravens sky danced high above her. The dogs roamed back and forth through golden field grass, in and out of aspen groves, eager to flush a grouse, a rabbit, a flock of wild turkeys. Usually she would laugh at their antics. Not today.

What will I tell Ross? How will he react?

Celeste didn’t think he had noticed the changes. Yet. But soon he would, and then he would try to fix whatever the problem was. That was his job, he often told her, to figure out problems and solve them. That’s what men do.

She knew he couldn’t fix this. That would frustrate him. She would say nothing until she met with her doctor, not to Ross or their kids, who would be home from college for a long weekend in three weeks.

She called the dogs when she headed back to the house. They always came running for the treats she carried in her jacket. When she reached into a pocket they sat obediently in front of her, tails wagging, eyes glued to the pocket.

You are such beautiful good dogs, she said, giving them each a little heart-shaped treat. What would I do without you?

And what would you do without me?

She walked more quickly then, swinging her arms, eager to look up her symptoms on the web. She tried to tune into her body and was aware that her right arm resisted swinging fluidly. She clasped and unclasped her hands; there was definitely less strength in her right hand. Butterflies fluttered in her chest; she felt her heart stop beating for a second and then beat several times hard and fast before settling back to normal. Her stomach tightened, as if a hand had grabbed and squeezed it.

I’m not usually an anxious person, I’m not. But I am afraid.

She collected three brown eggs from the nests in the henhouse and tossed the chickens some feed in their yard. She took off her boots and left them in the mudroom with Bridger and Lucy. The dogs drank deeply from their water bowl before flopping down, backs to one another, chests still rising and falling fast.

The websites she opened frightened her more. There were too many diseases that she might have: multiple sclerosis, Parkinson’s, a brain tumor. All debilitating, some fatal. She called Dr. Elliot, their family physician, and learned a cancelation had opened up an appointment on Friday. At least she would know something before Ross came home Friday evening. His company, Go Wild West, had enjoyed an excellent summer season, and he had scheduled several more wildlife watching groups for the fall. She was glad there was only one more before a break. Once winter snowstorms swept through Montana, cross-country ski and snowshoe trips would keep him busy in the Park through the long winter months.

She left her study and went to the kitchen to fix lunch. There was nothing like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to calm jangled nerves.

Chapter 2

Dr. Elliot had cared for her family since she was a child. As she drove north through Paradise Valley toward Bozeman, Celeste reminisced about her one frightening bout with pneumonia when she was ten. Dr. Elliot’s kind smile had evoked immediate trust. His office chairs had been her favorite color, blue, and the receptionist had purple and yellow lollypops on her desk, Celeste’s for the asking. The doctor had a spare contemporary office these days, in the Bozeman hospital complex. She didn’t like it as much. But what mattered was that he had been there for her through the years. She breathed more easily just anticipating being in his presence.

The young woman who registered her had her fill out a long form, asked for her insurance card, and took her photo. Celeste wished she had put on makeup, but it was too late now, so she took off her glasses and smiled for the camera.

May I see it? she asked impulsively.

Sure.

The first thing she noticed was that the anxious expression in her brown eyes betrayed her wide smile. But she liked that her long brown highlighted hair was nicely cut, her skin clear except for a mole on her left cheek, her dimpled chin unique.

For forty-nine, not bad.

She leafed through an outdated Oprah magazine until the nurse summoned her.

Dr. Elliot’s sparse gray hair was wispy now, and his beard and mustache were almost completely white, giving him a distinguished visage.

He knows me, he’ll listen. He’ll tell me what’s wrong.

But even though he listened, asked lots of questions, and examined her thoroughly, focusing a lot on her reflexes, he would say only that she needed to see a neurologist.

I’ll order some preliminary blood work and have the results and a referral sent over to Dr. DuBois, he told her. It would be good to get the lab work done today. At least we’ll rule out some of the possibilities. But Dr. DuBois will want to do a complete neurological workup.

Celeste could see he was both puzzled and concerned.

No one in my family has MS or any other neurological disease as far as I know, she told him. Could I have a brain tumor?

It’s possible, but I doubt it, he said, leaning back in his chair and slowly stroking the carefully trimmed beard. But honestly, I’m not sure what’s going on.

She got the blood drawn after a long wait, stopped in the cafeteria for a sandwich, and drove home. She could have asked Ginger to meet her for lunch if she didn’t have a class, but her daughter would know something was up. Celeste had never been able to hide her feelings from Ginger.

The hour and a half drive felt tedious, even though it was warm and sunny and the Paradise Valley mountain views were as stunning as ever, early snow glistening on the high peaks. She tried to listen to NPR and found the music discordant. She put an old John Denver CD she loved in the CD player, but it, too, annoyed her, as did the car in front of her that was going ten miles below the speed limit on the narrow road. Her mind raced; her imagination took her to every dark scenario she could think of. By the time she reached Gardiner and home her mind and body felt worn out, limp. But she called Dr. DuBois and set up an appointment for the next Wednesday, the only available slot for almost a month. She was told to allow at least two hours for all the testing.

She would have to change three client appointments.

You’ll need to bring your husband with you for your second appointment, the receptionist told her.

Why?

It’s always better if someone else hears what the doctor has to say.

You mean, the bad news. Neurologists probably always deliver bad news.

She let the dogs in, made herself a cup of herbal tea, gripping it in both hands while she drank, then climbed the stairs to the master bedroom, yawning. She pulled the blinds and crawled under the covers in their big bed. It was only four o’clock, plenty of time for a nap before Ross got home.

Jolted out of a nightmare in which she was rushing down a river in a rubber raft, about to fly over a raging waterfall, she heard the dogs barking and whining, heavy boots on the kitchen floor. Ross was home.

Celeste? Ci Ci?

She shook herself awake, flung back the covers and reached for her jeans, which were on the floor, but it was too late. He stood in the doorway and stared at the drawn blinds, then her.

What’s up? Are you OK?

She shook her head no.

He strode into the room and stood over her, forehead knotted in a frown. His full head of thick black hair was streaked with gray, and he looked like a mountain man with his bushy graying beard and mustache. The dense hair framed his strong nose, full lips, and especially his periwinkle blue eyes. She had never seen eyes that blue until she’d met him twenty-seven years ago, never known anyone that ruggedly handsome. There were still moments when he took her breath away. She stared at him, her midriff tightened with fear, then patted the bed beside her. He sat down, his face a big, concerned question mark. He knew she rarely napped. She took a large rough hand in hers and stroked it.

I didn’t want to worry you, maybe it’s nothing, but I’ve been having some strange symptoms and . . .

What kind of symptoms? he interrupted. I noticed your voice sounded different lately, but I thought it was allergies or a lingering cold. Or menopause.

It’s not menopause. It’s weakness in my right hand and arm, sometimes my legs. My coffee mug slipped out of my hand and broke the other day. For no reason, or some reason I don’t understand.

Anyone could drop a coffee cup, he said, shaking his head dismissively.

It’s not just that, she said, annoyed that he wasn’t taking her seriously. I’ve stumbled twice on the stairs recently. My right leg didn’t have the strength to get me up the next step.

His eyes bored into hers. His voice was softer when he spoke.

What do you think is going on?

The tears she’d been holding back filled her eyes, spilled over. She wiped them on her shirtsleeve.

Maybe it is menopause! She laughed, a high, unnatural explosion of hysteria that made her shoulders shake. I must be peri-menopausal, at least!

Ross rolled his eyes.

She caught her breath and spoke more soberly.

I went to see Dr. Elliot today. He said I should see a neurologist. I have an appointment next Wednesday with a Dr. DuBois.

Ross stood up and paced around the room in his socks.

What are the possibilities, did he say?

No. There’s a whole list of awful diseases on the web, though.

Jesus Christ, Celeste, I hope it’s not Parkinson’s or Multiple Sclerosis!

I’m scared, Ross.

Ross’ face blanched. He sat down again, wrapped his arm around Celeste and pulled her closer. She rested her head on his shoulder and they sat quietly for a few minutes. He smelled of woods and animal and sweat.

They want you to go with me to get the test results. It’ll probably be a couple of weeks from now.

He lifted her face to his and kissed her.

Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. OK?

OK, she whispered, shivering as a strong sense of foreboding flooded her nervous system.

I’m starving, and I’ve got a van full of stuff to take care of. Do you have something for supper? Do you want a glass of wine?

Yes and yes, she said, pulling on her jeans and standing up, her right leg wobbly. She casually leaned against the dresser for a few seconds while she buckled her belt, knowing Ross would be watching her now for symptoms.

I made a pot of chili earlier. All I have to do is heat it up and make a salad.

While they ate at the kitchen table, Ross told her stories about his Yellowstone trip.

Five satisfied New Yorkers. One griz with two cubs, and the same wolf pack everyone’s been watching at Slough Creek.

He chatted on, about the people he’d escorted in his Go Wild West van, the perfect fall weather, the bugling elk. Celeste was glad to have the distraction. But by the time she pulled a carton of chocolate chunk ice cream out of the freezer for dessert, there was only thick silence between them.

What about the kids? You haven’t told them, have you?

No, I haven’t told anyone.

Chapter 3

Celeste liked the neurologist, who was slender and attractive and, she guessed, at least ten years younger. Dr. DuBois listened carefully to her history, her symptoms, her fears, asked numerous questions, and took lots of notes. She checked Celeste’s reflexes, her balance, her strength. Celeste was appalled at how much weaker her right hand and arm were than her left, how difficult it was to balance on one leg. She watched Dr. DuBois’ face for a change of expression but saw none.

We’ll do several tests today that will help make a diagnosis -- an EMG to check the electrical activity of your muscles when they contract and when they’re at rest, a nerve conduction study, and a urinalysis. I’ll order an MRI, which you should schedule as soon as possible. We may want to do a spinal tap later depending on what the other tests show.

Celeste lay on the treatment table trying not to flinch from the pain when Dr. DuBois inserted a needle electrode into various muscles as Celeste contracted and relaxed each one on command. She surrendered to a nerve conduction study, which she didn’t understand and was too stressed to ask about. She left a urine sample before driving home, more exhausted than she felt she had any reason to be. She would have to go back to Bozeman for the MRI in two days. Another day of client cancelations.

This is going to be expensive.

The day she and Ross drove to Bozeman to get the diagnosis it rained heavily, large drops plopping hard and bouncing off the windshield. Even with the wipers on high speed, the two-lane road was barely visible ahead of them.

Can you please turn on the air conditioning to get rid of the fog inside? Celeste asked.

That won’t do anything but make me cold.

It was an old argument, one Celeste never won, as Ross always insisted that whoever drove controlled the temperature. Ross always drove.

She willed herself to let it go.

Someday, when we’re rich, we’ll have a car with dual heat controls. Heated seats, too. Ha. If I have some awful disease, we’ll never be rich. More likely, poor. Very poor.

Her mind wandered to Darby and Ginger, who would be home in three days. A dull knot formed in her stomach in anticipation of having to tell them what had to be bad news. How could it be anything but? She had forced herself to stop obsessing about what various websites diagnosed. They were all too scary and depressing. Ross had researched her symptoms extensively, too, as she had known he would. If he had come to any tentative conclusions he hadn’t shared them with her. Instead he had been compulsively creating order in the small storage room where all the sleeping bags, tents, and other camping equipment were stashed. It had been disorganized, a jumble that she had nagged him about too many times. She noticed him quietly going through the fine print in their health insurance coverage, checking their savings account and the kids’ college bills. Darby wanted to go to graduate school, which they had hoped to help finance.

Darby and Ginger had both had summer jobs to help with college expenses, but still, the costs of even state schools like the University of Montana and Montana State were higher than she and Ross had ever imagined they would be. There was barely enough to pay their bills, never enough for extras. They had counted on the investment made in her counseling degree to reap substantial rewards, but so far it hadn’t. Her eyes, focused on the rhythm of the windshield wipers and the unseen beyond, were suddenly too tired to hold opened. She leaned her head back and adjusted the seat so she was lying almost completely flat. She tried to remember the Serenity Prayer, which she had learned in graduate school when they had studied addictions.

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I . . . no, grant me the courage to change the things I can, the serenity to accept the things I can’t, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Even reclining with eyes closed, her mind wouldn’t quit. How could she know what she could change, what she could and could not accept? She sat up after a few minutes to choose a CD, folk music she knew Ross would like, too.

When is your first winter group coming? she asked him.

December first. I’m hoping there’s not a ton of snow before they come, just enough to snowshoe. It’s two couples. They’re older and not very experienced. I don’t think they’d enjoy the Park in a heavy snowstorm.

I saw that we’re supposed to get snow next week, but not a lot.

The rain was slowing to a steady drizzle. Celeste stared at the snow on Emigrant Peak.

Winter will be here before we know it.

Ross gave her a sideways glance.

It will be beautiful in the Park.

What if I can’t cross country ski or snowshoe this winter?

He grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

She pulled away.

That’s so trite.

But it’s true, we have to take one step at a time.

That’s just as trite.

She closed her eyes and lay back again, listening to the soothing sound of the music until she fell asleep. When she woke up, they were in the hospital parking lot.

Chapter 4

They sat in straight-backed maroon upholstered chairs across from Dr. DuBois, whose large oak desk made her seem more formal and distant than when Celeste had seen her before. Celeste held her breath while the doctor reviewed the test results aloud. They showed definite muscle deterioration.

I’ve consulted with another neurologist here, and we’ve both come to the same conclusion, she said, scanning their faces.

I am sorry to tell you that you have sporadic amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, otherwise known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. ALS. The sporadic just means it’s not genetically transmitted.

Celeste’s stomach lurched and dropped like an anchor thrown over the side of a boat. She couldn’t look at Ross, who grabbed her hand and held it tightly. They had both read about Lou Gehrig’s disease; it was one of the worst. She stared at Dr. DuBois, mute.

I am so sorry, the doctor said.

What can we expect? Ross asked, his voice wavering. Ross, who Celeste had watched handle so much from a place of calm strength, was on the edge of tears.

Dr. DuBois came around the desk, pulled up a chair, and faced them.

Some people would prefer not to know the details of a disease like this. How much do you want to know?

Ross and Celeste glanced at one another, then back at the doctor.

Everything, they said in unison.

All right. Put simply, neurons in the brain and spinal cord are damaged by excess glutamate, a chemical in the brain. The nerves stop communicating with muscles, and the muscles atrophy. No one really knows what causes it.

Celeste and Ross stared dumbly at her.

It’s hard to know exactly what to expect, Dr. DuBois said. There have been some medical breakthroughs in the past several years, so life expectancy has been extended for some. There’s a medication that can help with symptoms. Generally, the disease progresses gradually but steadily over time.

How much time? Celeste blurted out. Her voice sounded shrill to her. How much time do I have?

I can’t say for sure. Rarely the disease progresses more rapidly, but two to five years is typical.

Two to five years? Only two to five years?

She had read this, but at the time it was only a statistic. Not about her. Panic rose in her throat, a bitter taste. She tried to swallow it.

It could be quite a bit longer.

How long before I’m in a wheelchair?

Again, I don’t know, Dr. DuBois shook her head slowly, sad eyed. Everyone is different. Eventually you’ll need help with daily living, someone who can come in and help with bathing and cooking and that sort of thing. But for now just enjoy life, do what makes you happy. Take it one day at a time.

She wrote a prescription for medication that would help diminish Celeste’s symptoms, told her when to come back for further testing.

Celeste hardly heard her. She looked at Ross, whose expression was more solemn than she’d ever seen it. They thanked the doctor, shaking her warm hand, Celeste aware that hers was icy. Ross took her arm as they walked to the elevator, to the car. Celeste, dizzy, was grateful for the support.

Let’s stop in Livingston and get lunch. My treat. Ross said after a few minutes of silence on the interstate.

I don’t think I can eat anything.

We’ll go to the Mexican place and then walk along the river.

Celeste smiled wanly.

As if tacos will make this go away.

OK.

Two years. Maybe more. One step at a time, one day at a time. Do what makes me happy. How can I be happy knowing I’m dying? I don’t want this, it’s not fair. I’m too young to die.

SHIT! she yelled. SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!

FUCK IT! Ross yelled, pounding on the dashboard. FUCK IT!

Do what makes me happy, what a crock. What does that mean? Time for a bucket list?

Chapter 5

Darby and Ginger sat on the worn burgundy living room sofa, an unmatched pair of kids. Darby, tall and slender like his mother, leaned forward in his colorful Bernie t-shirt and stained cargo pants, elbows on knees and hands clenched under his chin. His sandaled feet were planted firmly on the floor, as if to anchor him. His narrow unshaven face looked scruffy to Celeste, though she knew it was a trendy look, knew it would pass, as all things do. His intense brown eyes and tight lips gave him a wary expression as he looked from one parent to the other, then stared at his sandals.