The last lecture by Randy Pausch Read Free Book Online Page A

box of tissues in the room. I had just learned I 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 moment. I felt incredibly impressed—awed really—by the way Dr. Wolff was giving the news to Jai. I thought to myself: “Look at how he’s doing this. He’s obviously done this so many times before, and he’s good at it. He’s carefully rehearsed, and yet everything is still so heartfelt and spontaneous.”
    I took note of how the doctor rocked back in his chair and closed his eyes before answering a question, almost as if that was helping him think harder. I watched the doctor’s body posture, the way he sat next to Jai. I found myself almost detached from it all, thinking: “He isn’t putting his arm around her shoulder. I understand why. That would be too presumptuous. But he’s leaning in, his hand on her knee. Boy, he’s good at this.”
    I wished every medical student considering oncology could see what I was seeing. I watched Dr. Wolff use semantics to phrase whatever he could in a positive light. When we asked, “How long before I die?” he answered, “You probably have three to six months of good health.” That reminded me of my time at Disney. Ask Disney World workers: “What time does the park close?” They’re supposed to answer: “The park is open until 8 p.m.”
    In a way, I felt an odd sense of relief. For too many tense months, Jai and I had been waiting to see if and when the tumors would return. Now here they were, a full army of them. The wait was over. Now we could move on to dealing with whatever came next.
    At the end of the meeting, the doctor hugged Jai and shook my hand, and Jai and I walked out together, into our new reality.
    Leaving the doctor’s office, I thought about what I’d said to Jai in the water park in the afterglow of the speed slide. “Even if the scan results are bad tomorrow,” I had told her, “I just want you to know that it feels great to be alive, and to be here today, alive with you. Whatever news we get about the scans, I’m not going to die when we hear it. I won’t die the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that. So today, right now, well this is a wonderful day. And I want