The unknown of treatment was frightening. People talked to themselves. Cried. Coughed. Vomited. Pissed. There was hardly any real space in the four feet that separated the blue recliners. I had a difficult time angling myself to hold your hand, kiss you on the forehead or watch TV. You’d wear sweats and button-down flannels. Your body hot, then cold, hot, cold. The nurses were always checking temperatures and blood pressures and changing bags suspended on IV poles. Rummaging through drawers full of tape, needles, tools, gauze. Every time we went to the day hospital a nurse asked if you had a direct line, then poked your bruised arm with another needle.
I don’t know if you knew this, but you weren’t like the rest of the patients, babe. When all the others were receiving intravenous drugs, distracting themselves with television, you’d happily listen to music, at times singing loud enough for a neighbor to hear. You’d nap through hours of chemo listening to the Liquid Meditations CD your mother gave you, but bands like Coldplay and Great Lake Swimmers and The Editors and Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah — those were the ones you’d sing to. Here’s what made you stand apart: When you sang, you radiated this warmhearted awareness of something bigger. Something bigger than everything and everyone. Like you knew something the rest of us didn’t, a knowing beyond knowing. You could catch it in the way you sung, see it in the corners of your smile. It made me want to climb inside you. Be closer to hear the heartbeat of your truth, hear the music of your divine understanding. I guess looking back on it, it kind of makes sense that you were happy. You understood the beauty of it — that cancer could be a blessing of focused time shared.
There was a kid a few years younger than us who’d pretend he was fishing while getting his latest dose. He’d cast, voicing the twirling noise the line makes, then a splash sound. He’d smile at you with a head nod. He too knew of something bigger, bigger than everything and everyone. He caught a rainbow trout once, four pounds of splashes and noise. You kept singing Coldplay as you handed him the net. “Lights will guide you home. And ignite your bones…” He, too, started singing as you took an imagined photo of his prized catch.
chapter forty-two
house of cards
I have kept a secret that you need to know. It happened when I was in New York. I wanted to go to New York — that’s not the secret, but I’ll get to that. Sure, Kaethy imagined it would be hard for me to leave you, but she also felt it was a huge work opportunity. One I shouldn’t pass up. I have no idea why interviewing yet another filmmaker and fashion designer in New York meant something to me, maybe it was a way to hold on to my own life, I don’t know. Somewhere between cancer and career and life I became this middle-aged woman. After exhaustion called me, after care-giving duties were finished, and after you were fast asleep, I’d go to bed. I’d wake up throughout the night with to-do lists running through my head, with tasks I was certain I forgot. I felt beaten and ragged by Sunday, then started the work week all over. I’m not complaining. It gave me a sense of purpose. But, New York felt spontaneous. It felt strange, wrong even, to escape, but I went. I drafted an e-mail to friends asking for help while I was away. Reassurance I guess.
I started typing:
Dear Friends,
As you all know, Anthony is undergoing a new round of chemo with an oncologist he calls “Superman.” What he hasn’t told you is that this round of chemo is more intense, with somewhat uncomfortable side effects…
I didn’t send the e-mail. Instead, I called my mother. I would fly her out to care for you and help around the house while I’d be in New York. She would drive you to chemo on Monday; I’d be back Wednesday. First, though, I had to tell her you had cancer.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday, June 5, 8:20 p.m.
Subject: multitasking
no multitasking when i call you at the office.
don’t you remember me?
i’m the guy who wants your undivided attention?
just a little sting when we got off,
felt like i was talking to a third of you…
sucked.
missed you today.
hope you get home soon.
love.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Tuesday, June 6, 2:23 p.m.
Subject: i am sorry
for sending you a sour e-mail yesterday.
i know i don’t e-mail you as often as i should
so i thought i’d say something nice…
like i think you’re amazing
and somehow managing to do so much
at work, here at home, and everywhere in between…
and i love you in each and every one of those moments.
i hope today is going well,
i hope to see you soon,
i hope to give you a big smooch when i do.
love.
…
We go through things. We hold on. We let go. We accept and forgive. We stay still when everything keeps moving. We regret things. We applaud ourselves. We go to New York for opportunities. We stop. We pause. We breathe.
That’s what I was doing, breathing. The day I left, I was excited for New York. With my mom now at the house, I didn’t feel going to New York was such a bad idea. I relied on my mom. Sure, her chattiness and frivolous conversation could get irritating, but this was her job — making patients feel at ease — and she was good at it. She had an excellent home heath aide resume, the perfect person to trust with your care. You seemed to like her well enough for me to feel comfortable leaving you. After all, I’d be gone only three days.
At the airport my tummy flipped and turned, tossed and gurgled. I assumed it was the overwhelming feeling of driving away in a taxi, leaving you behind, waving on the doorstep. We hadn’t spend three days apart, since you were diagnosed. Three days with no Ensure, cotton swabs or butterscotch candies to help with nausea during chemo. Three days of selfish me in New York City, conversing with edgy filmmakers, flashy fashion designers, and then a hit Broadway show. I was feeling a bit nauseated by it all, but chalked it up to excitement.
As I boarded my flight the wave of nausea hit me, again. Hard and sour. I sat down, buckled my seatbelt — window seat always, the middle was empty and a man sat on the aisle. I gave him a quick hello, swallowing the tart taste in my mouth. He wore just enough cologne to remind women of sex and men of competition. He smiled back. The engine started. Another wave of nausea. I grabbed for the paper barf bag and filled it.
“Usually people don’t get sick until they’re in the air,” his English accent teased.
“I am so sorry. Nerves I think.” I lied. I’d flown dozens of times. I was sick, legitimately sick, and now I had a five-hour flight with the stomach flu.
The first two hours of the flight weren’t too disagreeable as I closed my eyes and took a nap only to wake to more nausea. I filled the bag from the empty seat next to mine. Not discreet and unnoticed. Nope. I threw up loud torturous vomits causing nearby passengers to gag. The handsome man next to me didn’t flinch. He handed me his pretzels to soothe my stomach.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, food poisoning I think. I’m sooo embarrassed.”
“Ahh, don’t worry. It happens to the best of us. We’re just lucky we aren’t flying to New York when it does.” I laughed as he handed me the ginger ale he requested from the flight attendant.
…
His name was Chris. We shared a cab ride from the airport to our nearby hotels. He was easy to converse with and even easier to laugh with. I told him all about us, about how we met. I didn’t think it would be such a long story, but it was. You know how I can talk too much sometimes, like my mother, especially when I tell a story. Except, it was our story. I can always talk too much about us.
It was a long cab ride, and he listened.
I started our story with the comical moments at the office, the romantic ones in your truck. I’d even shared the time you drew a heart in the palm of my hand. Seriously. I told him that one. Secret’s out, babe. And yes, I told him how sexy you are. Showed him the picture of us I keep in my wallet.
My favorite family photo of us, all taking a nap.
…
Of course I left some stuff out like the day it rained and you brought me flowers, but I started the story at the beginning. I started it with the usual, “My God, he’s hot.” It didn’t sound the same. I was waiting for you to cut me off in mid-sentence and carry on with the details, so I could finish with a funny one-liner. Admit it. We told stories better together. It wasn’t the same telling one without you.
But, something happened when I told the story. I started describing your cancer. Cancer was never a part of our story before, yet here it was. I felt the current of the story pulling me down. Anger had surfaced and somewhere in sharing our love story, I was left with hopeless anticipation to finish the narrative and skip to the good parts, the love parts. It felt as if I was telling someone else’s tale. I rolled down the taxi window for air.
“So, tell me about you? Girlfriend?”
“Let’s meet up for drinks tomorrow night and I’ll tell you all about her.”
“I am going to see a Broadway show, but afterward? Is ten too late?”
“I’ll see you then. The cab ride is on me.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry about everything that you are going though…” He leaned over and opened the cab door from the inside.
“Again, thank you.”
“Go, get some rest, I’ll see you in the lobby at ten.”
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Thursday, June 8, 10:04 a.m.
Subject: busywork
awake, paying bills online and doing other busywork.
(expecting to pass out at any second.)
your mom’s taking a shower
to-do list awaits, just as soon as the rest of the world
wakes to meet us… early… Sleepy.
hope you’re waking up this morning feeling rested and good,
knowing your work is behind you, and leisure ahead.
i wish i was going to the play with you tonight,
that would be fun.
zach is supposed to be coming over tonight
to watch the first game of the finals.
flaked on york and julie yesterday,
so i’ll invite them over also.
wish you were here to enjoy it with us.
enjoy your new york minute.
i’ll call you soon.
love.
…
Chris was there promptly at ten, looking pressed and classy and gentlemanly. He gave me a lingering hug then complimented my curves declaring the dress stitched to fit my body. Bashful, but showing my appreciation of kindness, I grinned. We headed to a quiet bar six blocks from my hotel as we teased, over-exaggerating our first impressions — I assumed he was gay in his pale pink v-neck. He guessed I was pregnant with a bastard child and flying to NY to tell the father. We laughed at our pointless first impressions.
I was feeling better. The food poison had run its course and now I was thankful to be showered, refreshed and in New York City. It had been such a long time since I put on a party dress and heels and lipstick and sexy underwear and dangling earrings. I thought about you, Anthony, and I called you right before I left and said my I love you’s and described my day. I never told you that I was sick on the flight because I didn’t want you to worry. And, I have to be honest, this is the secret I never told you. I didn’t tell you that I went out for drinks, or that I met a charming Englishman or that I felt indulgent wearing earrings. I didn’t know what to say, so I told you nothing.
…
Chris was blond and foreign, short but built. He was the complete opposite of you. Maybe that was his appeal. His body was filled and full, feeling safe when he hugged me hello. I wondered what his chest would feel like pressed against mine when he lay on top of me. Don’t be mad. I thought that. I’m still a girl. I still think things like that, sexy things. I forgot what it was like to be desired, pursued, to feel girly.
Drink after drink turned into late night pizza, and after pizza we walked through the city, laughing loud and languid. I heard about his relationship dramas and heartaches. He told me about his girlfriend, how they lost a child and struggled to get past the loss. We shared our love for the unrehearsed, unexpected moments in life as we explored the powerful meaning of our hearts and minds. I’m making it sound wordy and romantic, because it was.
He escorted me back to my hotel. My arm slipped into his. When we got to the door, I invited him up to my room. “Do you wanna raid the mini bar with me?” I whispered it in his ear, before I even thought of what I said. He reached for my hand, sex on the tips of our fingers as we hesitated at the elevator door. Both of us restless for feeling something other than our real lives. The elevator doors opened. He squeezed my hand tighter. It was the wrong time to be cheating on you. I know it was a crime and I had absolutely no excuse. I turned to Chris, my losses and gains blurred, the energy of the present moment squeezing my hand — I held my breath as he leaned closer to kiss my lips. I turned my head.
“I can’t do this,” I said.
He kissed my cheek and the corner of my smile in a breathless exquisite kiss. “I hope someday, someone loves me as much as you love him.”
We stood there. We held on. We let go. We said goodbye.
…
“Hey, babe.”
“Hey you. It’s late.”
“I know. I know. I wanted to call… I have something I need to tell you.”
“Are you okay? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I forgot the words that were in my heart. I wanted to say so much. I wanted to confess everything. “I just wanted to say I miss you. I can’t wait to come home.”
“I can’t wait for you to be home…”
“Okay, go back to bed you sound so sleepy. I love you.”
“I love you more. Goodnight, you.”
chapter forty-three
no song attached
It all moves so fast eventually, life. For a long time, you wake up to catch the school bus and everything is the same for what feels like a lifetime. It’s all the same and then one day you wake and everything is different.
When I got home, I saw the passage of time in the weight you lost, the dark splotches around your eyes, the now jutting cheekbones, the wrinkles gained and the slowness in your pace. Only three days had passed and I could physically see your body’s decline.
My mother witnessed it, too. “Does his mother know her son is dying?”
I didn’t know how to answer the “dying” question. My mom changed the topic by listing what was in the fridge for dinner. “Spinach and some chicken,” she sniffled, holding back tears. She stayed and helped for two more weeks, in time for your mother to arrive for another big test result. In between the change of motherly shifts, we had two nights alone together. Just the two of us, and I was grateful.
…
We made love the night my mom left. Strange that I remember that, but I do. We loved as if it was our first time or our last. We were relaxed on the couch in the comfort of our home, our cozy little home, in the cozy little life we had created together. The life we created for each other. I undressed you slowly, button by button, then tenderly peeled off my own layers. Your movements were timid and weak, unsure of what move to make next. I took the lead, straddled your lap. Your body feeling frail between my thighs, your hold feeble. My hands took hold of your face, my
eyes lost in looks as I guided my body over yours gradually, wanting this moment to last as long as possible.
We kissed gently — our breath touched before our lips did. We never closed our eyes, not once. Even in the pleasure we didn’t close our eyes, afraid we might miss a minute. That’s the way I remember you best, your eyes two inches from mine, your smile blurry. Staring at one another, breathing, knowing without saying, feeling without believing, that our love could last forever. We become one, transfixed, staring contently through a soft moan. I began to cry. My life was right there. Right then and right there nothing else mattered. We understood each other perfectly. We were home.
…
Whenever you would get test results of how your cancer was progressing, your mother would fly into town full of energy and optimism. I’m not gonna lie — her energy was absolutely exhausting. I was thankful, though, too. I could handle your day-to-day calorie counting, pain medications, appointment scheduling, and hand-holding during chemo. Test results were foreign. A language I did not speak. Cancer markers, liver functions, PET, CAT scans. I had no idea what it all meant. When your mother or stepfather came, I felt like a pool shark. You couldn’t sink the eight ball, but I knew your mother could. She’d ask the appropriate follow-up questions. We’d win the game.
…
The three of us sat in the waiting room. Your mother typically read a medical journal or medical charts, catching up on her own work. She always wore her game face to the hospital. You and I leaned on each other, held hands, and gossiped about other patients, forever thankful you didn’t look “that” sick.
even if i am. Page 22