No Fucking Guardrail
When you’re diagnosed with a terminal illness, they tell you to “make memories.” The memories aren’t for you—as far as I know, dead people don’t need memories—but for your kids, so they’ll remember you after you’re gone. So one friend offers air-miles; another offers a timeshare; and before I know it, I’m in Maui, driving along the craziest, windiest road I’ve ever seen up to the top of Haleakala, the dormant volcano that dominates the island. 5,000 feet; 8,000 feet; 10,000 f
