He did not trust his personal physician’s diagnosis, of course. Pancreatic cancer. He couldn’t have pancreatic cancer. That’s the kind of terrible retribution that nature plays on you when you haven’t taken care of your body properly. Jason had never smoked, drank rarely and then only moderately, and since childhood he had eaten his broccoli and all the other healthful foods his mother had set before him. All his adult life he had followed a strict regimen of high fiber, low fat, and aerobic exercise.
«I want a second opinion!» Jason had snapped at his physician.
«Of course,» said the sad-faced doctor. He gave Jason the name of the city’s top oncologist.
Jason did not trust that recommendation. He sought his own expert.
«Pancreatic cancer,» said the head of the city’s most prestigious hospital, dolefully.
Jason snorted angrily and swept out of the woman’s office, determined to cancel his generous annual contribution to the hospital’s charity drive. He took on an alias, flew alone in coach class across the ocean, and had himself checked over by six other doctors in six other countries, never revealing to any of them who he truly was.
Pancreatic cancer.
«It becomes progressively more painful,» one of the diagnosticians told him, his face a somber mask of professional concern.
Another warned, «Toward the end, even our best analgesics become virtually useless.» And he burst into tears, being an Italian.
Still another doctor, a kindly Swede, gave Jason the name of a suicide expert. «He can help you to ease your departure,» said the doctor.
«I can’t do that,» Jason muttered, almost embarrassed. «I’m a Catholic.»
The Swedish doctor sighed understandingly.
On the long flight back home Jason finally admitted to himself that he was indeed facing death, all that broccoli notwithstanding. For God’s sake, he realized, I shouldn’t even have trusted Mom! Her and her, «Eat all of it, Jace. It’s good for you.»
If there was one person in the entire universe that Jason came close to trusting, it was his brother, the priest. So, after spending the better part of a month making certain rather complicated arrangements, Jason had his chauffeur drive him up to the posh Boston suburb where Monsignor Michael Manning served as pastor of St. Raphael’s.
Michael took the news somberly. «I guess that’s what I can look forward to, then.» Michael was five years younger than Jason, and had faithfully followed all his brother’s childhood bouts with chicken pox, measles, and mumps. As a teenager he had even broken exactly the same bone in his leg as Jason had, five years after his big brother’s accident, in the same way: sliding into third base on the same baseball field.
Jason leaned back in the bottle green leather armchair and stared into the crackling fireplace, noting as he did every time he visited his brother that Michael’s priestly vow of poverty had not prevented him from living quite comfortably. The rectory was a marvelous old house, kept in tip-top condition by teams of devoted parishioners, and generously stocked by the local merchants with viands and all sorts of refreshments. On the coffee table between the two brothers rested a silver tray bearing delicate china cups and a fine English teapot filled with steaming herbal tea.
«There’s nothing that can be done?» Michael asked, brotherly concern etched into his face.
«Not now,» Jason said.
«How long…?»
«Maybe a hundred years, maybe even more.»
Michael blinked with confusion. «A hundred years? What’re you talking about, Jace?»
«Freezing.»
«Freezing?»
«Freezing,» Jason repeated. «I’m going to have myself frozen until medical science figures out how to cure pancreatic cancer. Then I’ll have myself thawed out and take up my life again.»
Michael sat up straighter in his chair. «You can’t have yourself frozen, Jace. Not until you’re dead.»
«I’m not going to sit still and let the cancer kill me,» Jason said, thinking of the pain. «I’m going to get a doctor to fix me an injection.»
«But that’d be suicide! A mortal sin!»
«I won’t be dead forever. Just until they learn how to cure my cancer.»
There was fear in Michael’s eyes. «Jace, listen to me. Taking a lethal injection is suicide.»
«It’s got to be done. They can’t freeze me while I’m still alive. Even if they could, that would stop my heart just as completely as the injection would, and I’d be dead anyway.»
«It’s still suicide, Jace,» Michael insisted, truly upset. «Holy Mother Church teaches—»
«Holy Mother Church is a couple of centuries behind the times,» Jason grumbled. «It’s not suicide. It’s more like a long-term anesthetic.»
«You’ll be legally dead.»
«But not morally dead,» Jason insisted.
«Still…» Michael lapsed into silence, pressing his fingers together prayerfully.
«I’m not committing suicide,» Jason tried to explain. «I’m just going to sleep for a while. I won’t be committing any sin.»
Michael had been his brother’s confessor since he had been ordained. He had heard his share of sinning.
«You’re treading a very fine line, Jace,» the monsignor warned his brother.
«The Church has got to learn to deal with the modern world, Mike.»
«Yes, perhaps. But I’m thinking of the legal aspects here. Your doctors will have to declare you legally dead, won’t they?»
«It’s pretty complicated. I have to give myself the injection; otherwise, the state can prosecute them for homicide.»
«Your state allows assisted suicides, does it?» Michael asked darkly.
«Yes, even though you think it’s a sin.»
«It is a sin,» Michael snapped. «That’s not an opinion, that’s a fact.»
«The Church will change its stand on that, sooner or later,» Jason said.
«Never!»
«It’s got to! The Church can’t lag behind the modern world forever, Mike. It’s got to change.»
«You can’t change morality, Jace. What was true two thousand years ago is still true today.»
Jason rubbed at the bridge of his nose. A headache was starting to throb behind his eyes, the way it always did when he and Michael argued.
«Mike, I didn’t come here to fight with you.»
The monsignor softened immediately. «I’m sorry, Jace. It’s just that… you’re running a terrible risk. Suppose you’re never awakened? Suppose you finally die while you’re frozen? Will God consider that you’ve committed suicide?»
Jason fell back on the retort that always saved him in arguments with his brother. «God’s a lot smarter than either one of us, Mike.»
Michael smiled ruefully. «Yes, I suppose He is.»
«I’m going to do it, Mike. I’m not going to let myself die in agony if I can avoid it.»
His brother conceded the matter with a resigned shrug. But then, suddenly, he sat up ramrod-straight again.
«What is it?» Jason asked.
«You’ll be legally dead?» Michael asked.
«Yes. I told you—»
«Then your will can go to probate.»
«No, I won’t be…» Jason stared at his brother. «Oh my God!» he gasped. «My estate! I’ve got to make sure it’s kept intact while I’m frozen.»
Michael nodded firmly. «You don’t want your money gobbled up while you’re in the freezer. You’d wake up penniless.»
«My children all have their own lawyers,» Jason groaned. «My bankers. My ex-wives!»
Jason ran out of the rectory.
Although the doctors had assured him that it would take months before the pain really got severe, Jason could feel the cancer in his gut, growing and feeding on his healthy cells while he desperately tried to arrange his worldly goods so that no one could steal them while he lay frozen in a vat of liquid nitrogen.