The bank opens in twelve minutes.

My hands are not shaking.
I wish they were.
Shaking would mean there is still something in me trying to stop this.

Eight tablets.
That is what is left.

I thought I would feel like a criminal by now.
I thought there would be some moment when the person I was yesterday would disappear and someone else would take her place.
But I am still me.

I am still the woman who packs her daughter’s lunch every morning.
The woman who cuts the crust from the bread because she says it tastes different.
The woman who knows exactly how her breathing changes when the pain begins.

The doctors say the medication is working.
They also say she will need it for years.
Without it, they cannot tell me how fast things will get worse.

Months.
A year.
Maybe two.

They never give you a date when they tell you your child might die.
They leave enough space for hope.

The insurance company gave me a date.

Thirty days.

That was how long I had to appeal their decision.

I appealed.
Denied.

Her doctor appealed.
Denied.

The hospital sent reports.
Denied.

I sent photographs.
I sent test results.
I sent letters.
I sent a page where her doctor had written the words MEDICALLY NECESSARY in capital letters.

Denied.

Every letter had a different reason.
Every letter ended the same way.

We regret to inform you.

Regret.

Such a beautiful word.

Nobody who writes it has to watch her sleep.
Nobody who writes it has to count the tablets left in the bottle.

This morning there were eight.

Eight days.

Maybe nine if I break one in half.

The pharmacist told me not to do that.
He lowered his voice when he said it.
As if he understood that rules become strange when your child is dying.

I tried everything else first.

Savings.
Gone.

The car.
Sold.

I asked my employer for an advance.
I asked the manufacturer for assistance.
I asked strangers on the internet.

I learned how humiliating hope can become when you have to submit documents for it.

Proof of income.
Proof of residence.
Proof of diagnosis.
Proof that my daughter is sick enough to deserve another month.

And still there is always one more form.
One more committee.
One more person who has never met her deciding how much her life is worth.

The bank opens in seven minutes.

I keep thinking about prison.

Five years.
Ten.
Maybe more.

I imagine her visiting me through glass.

Older.
Angry.
Alive.

That is the only version that matters.

Alive.

I think about missing her birthdays.
I think about her growing taller while I am behind glass.
I think about her hating me.
Then I think about the alternative.
A small coffin.
Flowers.
People telling me I did everything I could.
That sentence terrifies me more than prison.
Everything I could.

Five minutes.

If I do this, they will call me violent.
They will show my face on television.
A neighbor will say I was quiet.
They will ask why I did not ask for help.

That will be my favorite part.

Why didn’t she ask for help?

I asked.
I begged.
I waited on hold while my daughter vomited into a towel.
I learned the names of strangers in call centers.
I thanked people while they explained why they could do nothing.
I said please so many times the word stopped meaning anything.

They will say I had choices.
They will say I should have waited.

Or I can walk through those doors.

I can become the thing they already made me feel like every time I begged them to keep her alive.

Desperate.
Unreasonable.
Dangerous.

I know there will be people inside.

A teller with children of her own.
A security guard who is only doing his job.
Someone standing in line to deposit a paycheck.

None of them did this to us.

That is the part I cannot solve.

The people responsible are never standing where you can reach them.
They are somewhere behind a desk, reading a file with her name on it.

Nobody has to say she should die.

They only have to write:

The claim does not meet the criteria.

And send it back.

The bank opens in two minutes.

If I walk away, the medicine runs out.
If I go inside, I may never hold her again.
I keep waiting for one choice to become less terrible.
It does not.

One minute left.

Call the insurance company.
Press one for claims.
Press three for an existing case.
Please hold.
Your call is important to us.

I could do everything correctly.
And bury her correctly too.

The doors unlock.

For a moment, nobody moves.

Then the security guard steps aside.

I think of eight tablets in a white plastic bottle.

Eight days.

I enter the bank.