posted by Anthony Glass at 9:54 a.m.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Tuesday, October 18, 10:12 a.m.
Subject: a blog
I read your blog this morning…
it is so incredibly
intimate
sincere
sweet
tender
and
heartfelt.
"Be Mine"
R.E.M.
Anthony, reading your words, I wanted to smother you with kisses and ask you to never leave me. I wanted to marry you right then and have a dozen children starting that afternoon. I did. I wanted to. I wanted to comb the tar out of your feathers; pluck the thorns out of your feet. I wanted to love you like a revolution, and you to love me equally. If you made me your religion, I’d give you all you need. I’d be the drawing of your breath, the cup if you should bleed. I’d be the lights that guide you inland. You and me.
I wanted to find you right then. To rub your face, look you in the eyes and tell you just how much I love you. I wished I could have done more to help — wished I could take away your pain. I wished I was the one with cancer. I know, I know. But, I did. I wished I were the one fighting. I loved you so much; I was scared to tell you how much. Instead, I told you, “Your blog is beautiful. It helps us understand.”
chapter twenty-four
naked as we came
Every part of us thought about, stressed about, and argued about cancer. There was a lot to plan, a lot going on, making the circumstances delicate. The closer to surgery and the more medications you took, our sex became, well, awkward. It was awkward, right? I don’t know how someone fights about sex; maybe all couples fight about sex, but during sex? We managed to find a motive.
Even now, it hurts in new and varied ways. Maybe you felt defeated and needed someone to blame. I’d like to think it was your belly full of chemo, and not my fault. I wasn’t in the mood for sex that night. You pushed me at my worst, sometimes. I’m not blaming you. Okay, maybe a little, but I had a hundred things on my mind. Work was busy as ever. I hadn’t called my family in weeks. We had another big CAT scan that afternoon, a thousand things were going through my mind, but you persisted, pushed. “No and no.” It didn’t help that I said it through a giggle as you kissed my neck. You knew how to turn my no’s into yes’s. Your lips on my skin were a weakness. We kissed as my legs wrapped around you like twine. Then it happened. My mind shifted back to the thoughts stirring inside.
“Ouch. Sorry, but you’re pulling my hair.”
Instantly you struggled. “Would you focus on me?”
“I am. But, my hair was under…” You’re right. I wasn’t focusing on you. I couldn’t get in the mood no matter where you kissed. I tried. I did, I swear. But a million little thoughts got in the way.
“This is too much work.” I knew that tone. Irritated, you rolled off of me. “You make me jump through hoops to get you in the mood. And you smell funny. Did you even shower today?”
“Okay, now you’re just being a jerk. Did I shower today? Asshole.”
I got up from the bed and put my shirt on as you looked for your pants, complaining about our sex life. Listing all the things I’d done wrong until that point. I equal parts loved you and couldn’t stand you.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Wednesday, October 26, 11:46 a.m.
Subject: hurt
last night’s conversation hurt, bad…
and it wasn’t so much what you said,
it hurt because I think it’s not me you love,
but merely the idea of me you love.
Since the day we started this relationship you have tried to modify me into a version of someone you preferred. Contacts over glasses, express more, don’t flirt too much, don’t hang out with. After last night’s conversation, I realized that I can NEVER be the girl you’re wanting me to be. I have flaws and faults that define who I am, things you will love and hate; more importantly, things that I cannot or do not want to change.
Last night I felt as if you had blamed me for our fighting, and then if blaming me wasn’t enough, you began to list things wrong with me sexually. I don’t express myself, I don’t tell you how I like it, or what turns me on, I push and pull, I don’t pay enough attention, I never initiate… I smell?
NEVER have I felt this insecure about my actions.
NEVER have I felt uncomfortable in my own skin.
NEVER have I second guessed my self-worth, who I am, or what fucking shoes am I gonna wear…
this is not me, and it feels gross.
I can’t keep hurting like this.
I can’t keep questioning myself and my actions.
Maybe we are putting too much on this relationship because we are so emotionally invested. Maybe we both desperately want that perfect relationship and commitment, and maybe, just maybe, neither of us are willing to admit that “we” aren’t the right match.
I wish I knew the answers,
I wish I could be the girl you needed me to be.
I wish for a lot of things…
but I don’t wish to feel like this anymore.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Wednesday, October 26, 2:23 p.m.
Subject: Re: hurt
i love you.*
*although a simple statement, it seems there are a number of ways this can be interpreted, distorted, feared, and even mutilated. my love for you is simple. it does not come with the expectations that you are “the one,” with a prescribed order of physical and personality traits you must be trained to have in order to fulfill this persona. that’s bullshit. my love for you is simple. it is for you.
we have many differences, basic things about us.
at times it seems they will be our undoing.
times like these.
the thought of it makes me sick,
but what are we doing?
i can’t believe it was only yesterday
that you were here in my office,
our arms wrapped around each other,
and i felt like i was going to jump out of my body
just to get a little bit closer to you.
and here we are?
i understand what you feel
when you say you’re tired,
because it’s fucking exhausting.
all morning i’ve been writing this,
and my feelings are all over the place.
but beneath it all, i can’t imagine
not being with you, and giving up.
i know you’re feeling right now
that perhaps that’s the best thing,
and maybe you’re right.
i really don’t know.
i do recognize that i am
a hippopotamus trying to do ballet
when it comes to being tactful or delicate,
but if you smell funny,
i want to fucking tell you. that’s intimacy.
tell me my dick is crooked. it is.
too much writing.
too much thinking.
sending this now because it’s taken too long,
and i know you’re waiting for it.
…
I blame Snow White. Yep, Snow White. She made love seem easy. She wished in a well for the one she loved to find her; and then there he was, a dashing prince galloping in on a white horse. They hardly exchanged two words. I think: Just wait, honey. Just wait until you fight over chores, awkward sex, meeting parents or cancer. Snow White, you know nothing about love.
Yet, I listened. I believed in once-upon-a-times and ha
ppily-ever-afters. Because of Snow White I got my heart broken. Over and over. I kept thinking, he’s coming, my happily-ever-after. Just wish into the goddamn well. I waited for him. I waited for him at a seventh grade dance, then again in homeroom, in college studying art, at the bar sipping a PBR, the grocery store buying two-ply toilet paper… I eventually found him — three times, actually. The truth was disappointing, yet I refused to give up on the fairytale.
“I’m not done loving you,” I e-mailed back.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Thursday, October 27, 10:59 a.m.
Subject: never be done
let’s have dinner
just the two of us tonight.
well, three of us if you count gladys…
do you want to help me come up with
questions to ask the surgeon tomorrow?
some possibilities:
will anthony be as much of an asshole
after surgery as he is right now?
think about it.
"Naked As We Came"
Iron and Wine
chapter twenty-five
in the round
From: [email protected]
To: friends
Sent: Friday, October 28, 3:27 p.m.
Subject: web+log=blog!
my dear friends and family,
if you are receiving this e-mail
it means that you are pretty frickin’ special,
and in an effort to stay close with each of you
over the next weeks and months,
i have started a blog to post
the latest news/events/thoughts/images,
so that if you’re ever wondering,
you have someplace to go
to see/read/feel the latest.
http://anthonyglass.blogspot.com
love to all.
a.
Thursday, October 27
and all of a sudden
getting ready to meet with my surgeon this afternoon,
writing my list of questions to ask him… kind of slow going…
question #1: “how much is this going to suck?”
question #2: “how long is this going to suck for?”
this month has flown by,
and as eager as i was for the surgery to arrive,
it’s two weeks away, and i can’t help but feel
like that’s suddenly much closer than i thought.
as a follow-up to the chemo and radiation therapy,
two days ago i had to go in to get an imaging scan
of my abdomen to see how my insides are looking.
as is standard practice, i had to down two liters
of barium contrast (with a delightful citrus flavor).
it was disgusting, and i’m quite sure if i ever need
to vomit on cue in the future, i’ll have plenty of motivation.
still facing the obstacles of blue cross.
writing my appeal to get my surgeon Dr. Beart covered*
feels something like writing a personal statement
to get into a college i know will never accept me.
but maybe if i write something so absolutely brilliant…
right.
*quality costs money.
posted by Anthony Glass at 9:54 a.m.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday, October 28, 2:59 p.m.
Subject: cuddle
after spending the whole morning
putting my blog together
and sending out the e-mail,
i find myself finally getting into work…
i guess it’s a good thing
since i have to leave before three
to meet my surgeon.
i think you have a lot of reasons
for coming down to cuddle
and should use any one of them to do so.
i will look forward to it.
just in case i didn’t send it before,
here it is again…
this morning was beautiful,
come visit me soon.
"In The Round"
The Cardigans
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday, October 28, 3:31 a.m.
Subject: Re: cuddle
maybe it’s the cold weather
or that my tummy hurts
or that you’re leaving for the day
or that you are meeting with your surgeon
or that I’m not going with
whatever it is…
I miss you.
…
Your family became long-distance caregivers. Your mother gave emotional, spiritual support and dietary advice during each call; stepfather coordinated medical services via telephone. Your brothers distracted you with football and reminisced about childhood. I was thankful when your stepfather decided to fly in from D.C. for two days to meet your surgeon, Dr. Beart, for a second opinion. The first was a general HMO surgeon who didn’t seem skilled enough for such a complex and detailed surgery. He had never even worked on a colon. We looked for and found the best possible colon cancer specialist in Los Angeles. Surely your stepfather, being a doctor himself, would have questions and concerns that were more valid than my petty worries.
We never planned an introduction. I’d meet your stepfather when there was time to visit, not between doctor appointments.
…
I’m a sucker for dance movies — Footloose, Dirty Dancing, Step Up 2: The Streets, it doesn’t matter. I cry. Flashdance nearly hospitalized me. So unless I’m feeling pathetic enough to seek out a serious cathartic moment, I avoid dance movies.
Hope. That’s what gets me, every time. The basic idea of hope, the obstacle to overcome, the music chosen to extract tears — I’m an absolute sucker. “Just let her dance! One. More. Time.” I scream at the television. Dance movies are my kryptonite (long pause for dramatic effect) until now (longer pause). There is something out there far worse than dance movies. Just reading a show description makes me sob. Medical dramas. There’s no form of entertainment more littered with hope than the medical drama. Hope that they save the old man from heart failure, hope that the woman can conceive after the accident, hope that the child doesn’t lose a limb after the near-fatal infection. Hope that his surgery removes the tumor…
Sunday, October 30
it’s all happening…
the weekend has expired,
left itself in small pieces
in forgotten places
(it is sunday night, after all).
picking them up, folding them neatly,
and putting them away
(monday comes better that way).
the best news in recent memory came thursday afternoon,
when meeting with my surgeon
for my post-therapy, pre-surgery consult.
he told me the tumor
had responded very well to the radiation and chemo,
and had dramatically reduced in size
allowing for a much smaller section
to be removed when i have surgery november 16th.
i was, however, in mid-exam when i received the news,
and tempered my joy until the anal-scope was removed
and my ass was lowered from the mechanized exam table
that had it perched five feet high in the air.
needless to say,
once i was back on my feet
i was ecstatic.
went to see charlie kaufman at the writers’ guild
,
and was reminded of so many things,
so many good things.
halloween party at a house
i don’t live in anymore.
everyone dressed up as someone else.
but there were some familiar faces,
and it was fun, especially the part when i went home,
quiet home.
peaceful home.
feel like a squirrel nesting in here,
trying to get everything ready
with winter fast approaching.
counting my acorns.
good news:
happiness is available for all
in the form of $12 slippers from target.
they might’ve changed my life.
posted by Anthony Glass at 10:45 p.m.
chapter twenty-six
mexico
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Wednesday, November 2, 10:08 a.m.
Subject: on the road
this is a sweet song,
a familiar voice.
something that makes me
want to pack up the car
and drive south…
yes, i know…
when will that be us?
driving on the mexican coast
on the road to ensenada.
maybe we’ll go somewhere for christmas or new year’s.
would mexico be fun for that?
feels like it.
i’m so curious to see
how i heal from the surgery,
but i’m expecting to be
feeling solid by new year’s.
solid.
seems pretty far off though, huh?
sigh.
"Mexico"
Panda and Angel
…
A naked man Photoshopped from Playgirl with a scary resemblance to you adorned the invitation to celebrate Anthony Day.
Anthony’s more than just a sweet piece of ass (and that’s good, because the doctors will be removing that piece soon), so join us as we celebrate his better qualities, whatever they may be! Bring your booze, leave your pants!
…
“So explain it to me again slowly, who are York and Julie?”
I can’t believe we’d been dating for months already. It took me by surprise that I was getting ready for a party to meet your friends. Besides Zach, I hadn’t really met anyone; but I’d heard the stories about drunken-rowdy-night-friends, old roommates, and secret crushes. I knew most of the stories behind the nicknames Antone, Crazy Tony, Thony, and Beautiful Anthony, but I had yet to put a face to the long list of names on the Evite.
even if i am. Page 10