All the time-stamped rigours of daily journalism are behind her,but the pace of Susan Spencer-Wendels life has only been hastened. She is dying. And dealt a diagnosis she knows she cant beat,the race is on to finish.
Her greatest story. Her toughest assignment. Her final deadline.
Spencer-Wendels job as a court reporter at The Palm Beach Post made her a local fixture,reporting on everything from the 2000 presidential election recount in Florida to conservative commentator Rush Limbaughs legal woes. But what was once a constant rush to be first with her scoops has become a dash to live her remaining days joyfully,complete a long goodbye to those she loves,and record it all in a book that has drummed huge interest and multimillion-dollar book and movie deals. The clock ticks forward as her body is betrayed by Lou Gehrigs disease and yet so much is left to do. Her life has been full of happiness and she sees no reason her last days should be much different. Life is full of chapters, she says,knowing full well this is her last.
Spencer-Wendel was on auto-pilot,locked in a time-worn routine of breaking news at the Post and navigating the daily dance of sibling warfare at home with her three children. That day in 2009 was just like every other,until she undressed for bed and noticed her left hand,scrawny and pale,starkly different from her right one.
You need to go to the doctor, her husband,John Wendel,said.
She went through a year of medical appointments and tests and a subsequent year of denial. She sunk into depression and contemplated suicide. When the verdict of Lou Gehrigs Disease,or amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS),was finally delivered,there was no surprise. And reflecting on the news she received,she was overcome with a strange feeling of gratitude,for the 44 years she had lived with nary a health problem to speak of,for the career,the family,the travels,for all shed been blessed with. Before long,a roadmap was in place for her remaining time.
She went to California to find her birth mother; to New York,where her teenage daughter tried on wedding dresses for a glimpse of a day theyll never share; to Budapest,where she and her husband retraced footsteps of an earlier life; to the Yukon,in a vain attempt to see the Northern Lights with her lifelong best friend; to the Caribbean,to Cyprus,and on and on.
Along the way,she wrote stories about two of her trips for the Post that were so heartbreakingly recorded they caught the eye of HarperCollins,which gave her a $2.3 million deal,and Universal Pictures,which followed with a seven-figure offer of its own. She sprinted to continue her travels and to put them in writing,tapping out the vast majority of her book,Until I Say Goodbye,on her iPhone using just her right thumb.
She believes it is the best thing she has ever written,this narrative in which her travels are documented alongside her own decline. Now 46,the woman who rushed to hearings and banged out stories in a flash no longer can walk or swallow a pill. But she offers a manuscript as likely to tug at the funny bone as the tear ducts.
As that day draws closer,shes comforted by the way her son Aubrey notices the skys brushstrokes as the sun goes down,how Wesley talks of being a dolphin trainer and Marina dreams of living in New York. She thinks about her husband John and prays he finds love again,that he loses not a moment to guilt. She laughs and reads and writes. She lives the best she can,hoping to impart lessons with her parting choices.
I am not gone, she writes. I have today. I have more to give. I know the end is coming but do not despair.