unguarded…
or rather,
i feel
like
i am in your heart…
deep in your heart
Of the conversations, it’s the little ones you look back on. The ones you wish you could go back to and have again. Maybe the conversations don’t even have real importance or hold much weight, but you remember it. It marks a time. A place. A feeling. You remember the words and the sentiments. I remember the voice I used to comfort you, Anthony, and I certainly remember my fears. However, in this one conversation, it’s the words, “what if,” that I remember most.
…
“Come closer,” I cooed. I was sitting on the top step of our stairs with my arms opened to embrace him. “What’d they say?” Trying to get Anthony’s attention, I shook his body while I embraced him. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Telling my roommates was difficult, harder than I imagined. They were sweet, strong, supportive but then they started talking about how we’re like a family in this house, and how everyone will be here for me — take care of me… It made me sad and scared.”
“Why scared?”
“Scared I’m going to let them down somehow. Seems foolish, but… what if I won’t be able to take care of them?” There it was. Maybe we were thinking about other what ifs, but this was the first.
“What do you mean?”
“What if I am too sick to be their friend — what if I’m too sick when they need me?”
Anthony fiddled with his fingernails, and his hands shook and I knew he was scared to talk such nonsense but I thought he was absurd and so selfless.
“I think you’re absurd.”
Neither of us knew what to say. Instead silence filled the space between an exhaled sigh as he hid his face in my neck, rubbed his nose into my hair. He did that when he needed comfort, and I would press my cheek against his forehead, nuzzling back for the same sense of relief.
“My boyfriend gets home tonight…” We both sat upright. “I’m afraid to move out. I have no idea why, but I feel trapped, too weak to leave, or stir up conflict.” I kept barfing out words like unhappy, unsatisfied, and uncomfortable. Any word I could conjure starting in un. “Most of all I feel uneasy. I’m not a cheater. I don’t feel like I’ve cheated.”
“You haven’t,” he said, snickering. “Trust me. I know.”
“No, seriously.” I elbowed him, half-grinning. “I need to tell him this is really happening. I’m moving out. I owe him that. I need to tell him he’s not a horrible person, just not the person for me. How do I say that? After five years how do you tell the person you love that it’s simply not enough. I’m scared of his reaction. He acts like a child these days. I don’t know why this is so hard. I’m scared I guess.”
“You’ve said, ‘I’m scared,’ a couple times now.”
“I know. I know. Sorry. This probably seems so trivial.”
“You are far from trivial. I am here, whenever, or however you need me to be, even if only a friend. I thought we’ve worked that out by now.”
“I know.” I nestled into his shoulder with a soft, slow exhale. “Then there’s you, sweet, snuggly you.” I loved the way he tickled the tip of his nose against my neck. “Are you going to tell your mom tonight?”
“I’ll try.”
“Anthony, you’ve told friends. You’ve told your brothers. It’s time.”
“I know.” He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I don’t blame him. “Okay, we’d better get back to work. Meet me in my truck later?”
“Yes.”
He headed to the sixth floor while I stood on the seventh.
“Are you still scared?” I yelled down the stairwell.
“Trying not to be. You?”
“Terrified.”
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Wednesday, July 27, 10:22 a.m.
Subject: i couldn’t attach the song i wanted to send with this…
and that sucks because it was perfect
i am scared
of being scared…
and so,
i am not.
even if i am.
for too much of my life,
at the worst times, some random times
and inevitably embarrassing times,
my hands have shaken…
despite me.
my efforts to focus.
calm.
steady…
FUCK!
and it is a sad betrayal
when your body gives up your mind,
shows that which you would conceal,
that which you cannot…
but something good
has come out of it…
and that is,
i know i still must act.
must push through it,
must do whatever it is.
fear is familiar.
and so,
when it comes
i know what to do.
“my fear is my only courage
so i have to push on through…”
— bob marley
i know…
i can’t believe i just quoted bob marley either,
but it came to mind,
and even if i sound like
a college freshman…
it helps the point.
despite your efforts
to illustrate the contrary,
i don’t think you are fearful.
i think you are bold.
and i think you are beautiful.
i think you are bold and beautiful.
(oh christ, i’m losing it…)
but there is something inside of you,
something i have seen:
a strength. steadiness. courage.
as opaque as you are.
it is easy to see.
perhaps you are scared now,
frozen by the fear you feel
because you don’t know
how to handle it…
fear is not familiar for you.
we are defined by
who we are in crisis…
you are overwhelmed.
so quit your fucking whining
and do something about it.
something amazing.
because that is who you are.
that is what i see.
…
Five Year returned from his trip visiting his grandmother in Cleveland. He showered me with guilt gifts, inquired about my birthday and the details of my week. I gave stock replies, and then my automated response turned attention to his travels. He described Cleveland, his childhood home, his grandmother’s appearance. I never met his grandmother, but she sounded sweet. I knew very little of his home and childhood in Cleveland. His stories were new and interesting. It was good to see him, a forgotten comfort in our lazy love. We kissed, hugged, conversed like old friends, finished each other’s sentences, and then laughed. I felt content.
I sat on the edge of the bed and searched for the courage while he removed dirty clothes from his suitcase. I knew this would be our last goodbye. I thought of your e-mail, your expressions, moreover, your strength.
I am scared of being scared… and so, I am not. Even if I am.
…
You never did tell me how the phone call went, but I imagined you pacing the room, rehearsing the conversation a dozen times while contemplating your mother’s response. Knowing you, you thought about everything to say, extremely careful in selecting words. I wouldn’t be surprised if you even wrote it down. Yes, you definitely wrote it down in that green notebook you alway
s carried, highlighting key points, outlining needed details. Taking your time with the placement of each word. Likely your mind raced, listing things you should have done, should have finished or started. I bet you even blamed yourself for getting cancer. Somehow it was your fault. Persuaded yourself you needed to apologize to her first. You practiced your replies, your assurance.
Weeks’ worth of conversations had gone by and now it was time to tell her. You told me that you only cried once when you thought of telling her. You had a malignant tumor, and you hadn’t shed a tear. Maybe no one told you there is strength in crying. Though, I know that this moment, the simple thought of telling your mother made you sob. Uncontrollably. You wept. You wept for her fears, for her concerns, lamented your own pressures, awkward emotions, uncomfortable skin. Phone in hand. You were scared. Your hands shook while you dialed the number. This I am sure of.
I am scared of being scared…and so, I am not. Even if I am.
“Hi, Mama.”
“Anthony,” she sung, “it’s good to hear your voice. How are you?”
Swallowing your tears, “I’m okay.”
“Just okay?”
“I have something I need to tell you…”
chapter fifteen
jealousy rides with me
Before I met Anthony, everything I knew of love was a long way off. I thought love was complex and compound; like one of those word problems in math, usually involving a train’s speed, that no one could solve.
“Stage 3 colon cancer.”
“Out of?”
“Four.”
“Shit.”
You know, thinking back, that was the moment. After Anthony was diagnosed, our relationship changed. Love became singular. One times one equaled one. Basic math, no word problems or freight trains. We were beyond intimate. It would only seem like a reasonable progression, love. But there was something about it — a singular strength of feeling. Something I hadn’t experienced in previous relationships. Sounds crazy, cliché even. I can get outside of myself sometimes, but I truly felt Anthony was my missing piece. My Shel Silverstein’s “Big O.” The piece that makes you whole. The circle that teaches the triangle to soften its edges and roll alongside. The “O” that brings out the best in you, surrounds you with love, the piece that completes you and tells you, “You’ll be all right, because I’m by your side.”
My Big O. My train home.
…
“Hey, I need your opinion,” Anthony said causally as we walked to get lunch.
“Okay.”
“Since you’re going to be the mother of my children…” He poked my side. I giggled and squirmed. “I think we should store sperm before starting chemo.”
I tickled back. “I think that’s an excellent idea. What do we have to do?”
I know. This is an absurd question to be asking someone you’ve not had sex with. Then again, love is absurd.
“There is a clinic that stores your sperm until you need it. Weird, right? Like rented storage space. I guess I just have to go down to the clinic and, ummm, put a specimen — or ‘friends’ as I like to call them — in a storage container.” He wiggled his finger mimicking a friend swimming, and tickled me again.
“Sounds kinky,” I taunted. “I say store as much as you can. Then we have the comfort of knowing there’s always the chance for a family. If I know anything about you, that’s pretty important.” Like a mischievous child, I quickly ran ahead. “Plus, if we plan to have a boy for each month…”
“Boys, huh?” He rushed to catch me, grabbed my waist and threw me over his shoulder as we stumbled down the street laughing. “First, we should probably have sex.”
“To see if it even fits.” I giggled upside down.
“Hell, I’d be happy to touch your boobs.”
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Thursday, July 28, 4:11 p.m.
Subject: mother of your children…
do you think it’s strange…
that you said that with such
confidence and certainty?
and I simply agreed.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Thursday, July 28, 5:18 p.m.
Subject: Re: mother of your children…
yeah…
we’re weird…
doesn’t one usually come
WAY WAY WAY before the other???
we’re definitely
on a weird wavelength…
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Thursday, July 28, 6:36 p.m.
Subject: Re: mother of your children…
strangest relationship in history…
and yet there is something
words can’t explain.
…
One day not long after the diagnosis, I managed to keep my mind occupied with work projects and packing. My office phone rang and I hurried to answer, expecting Anthony’s sweet voice calling to tell me the story of putting “friends” in storage.
“Hey, Chas.”
“Oh, hey, Zach.”
“Do you know where Anthony is?”
“He left for the uh, the doctor earlier today. What’s up?”
“Oh, I wanted to catch up with him before I left work.”
“Sorry, but you just missed him. You could try his cell?”
“No worries.”
Hearing disappointment in Zach’s voice I offered, “Hey, I was thinking about going for a walk after work? Care to join me?”
“Would love to.”
If I had to guess, Zach had a crush on me. I am female and blonde and have boobs; the basic elements of Zach’s type. I inherited my mother’s looks and tendency to flirt. I’m the Midwest girl Zach grew up adoring in Chicago. We liked to chat about movies — he liked blockbusters, I preferred art house. We gossiped about work scandals and trash-talked our latest projects. But honestly, apart from any common ground or crush he might have had on me, I think Zach liked me because he had a man-crush on Anthony. He wanted to fit into the cool crowd and Anthony was, well, cool. He’d find reasons for the three of us to go for coffee walks and lunch breaks. We didn’t know it then, but Zach would become our third wheel. He’d become our crutch and the first person to ever take our picture together.
This is the first photograph we took together.
“Have you ever hiked to the top of the canyon and seen the view of Hollywood?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“Really?” He shook his head in confirmation. “Well, then, it’s your lucky day. We are hiking to the top.” I raised my fist and marched onward. “When you called looking for Anthony, you sounded a little bummed. How are you holding up?”
“Like shit, but getting through it. I’m still trying to grasp the fact that one of my best friends has cancer, and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I feel helpless, and I don’t want to cheapen my time with him talking about work.”
“Talking about work is helping more than you know. Trust me.”
I don’t need to go on about the importance of friends, but it’s hard not to here. Their distractions, even work, made Anthony hugely happy.
…
I guess I just had one of those wishful-thinking moments, babe, that everything was great between us. I flashed my bright glowing smile, my immediate reaction whenever you caught me off guard — you had that way. Yet, you said nothing as you exited the elevator. Just walked by, gave me the cold shoulder. You never acted like this before, so I knew something was wrong. I dialed your office number and let the phone ring until you answered.
“No friendly morning banter?”
“Not in the mood.”
“Why?”
“I ran into to Zach and heard about your hike. I don’t know… Sort of irritating.”
“What?”
“You can go to the movies, hang out, and hike with Zach, but we remain behind closed doors. This — whatever this is, it’s not working. It feels like I’m repeating an all-too-familiar cycle of sneaking around.”
“I have no idea where this is coming from.”
“Of course you don’t.”
You hung up the phone. You’re a jerk sometimes.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday, August 1, 1:57 p.m.
Subject: yuck!
i wish i could unzip this feeling,
take it off like a jacket,
and fucking burn it.
fuck.
i want to be able
to let go of it…
have fun with zach.
walk up the fucking canyon,
and look at the fucking view…
too much
on my
fucking
mind.
felt one way this morning…
turned quickly into something else.
fucking sucks.
me.
i have
to fucking focus.
on me.
strength.
center.
breathe.
and…
“Jealousy Rides with Me”
Death Cab for Cutie
…
It’s a part of our story I wish to forget, a splinter in my perfect memory of us. We weren’t perfect — no couple is. I get that. But, this fight seemed frivolous. And I hated arguing in our stairwell at work.
“YES. You. Have. To. Focus. On. You. No question. I need to do the same.” Do you remember? You came back with a long-winded dialogue about ending our “shadowed” relationship. You explained your jealousy towards Zach, expressing “unhealthy feelings that hindered your mental and physical health.” We never even sat down on a step. You stood to disagree. I stood to reassure.
“Am I supposed to walk away and not want to see you?” I urged, talking slowly to emphasize each word. “Because as much as you need to focus on your health, I won’t let you go. I. Am. Not. Walking. Away.” You kept blathering on about ending, as I kept pleading, “It breaks me that you feel like this. I want to tell you things, hug you, yell at you, whatever it takes to make these feelings go away.”
even if i am. Page 7