Only In Dreams (Stubborn Love Series)

by Owens, Wendy

  “I’m not nervous,” I insist. “I just don’t understand why they make you wait in a waiting room, only to bring you into the doctor’s office and make you wait some more. I mean, isn’t that the entire point of the waiting room.”

  “It hasn’t been that long.”

  “You’re too nice. It’s not like we’re waiting for our takeout order. We’re waiting to find out about a fucking—” The word trails off my lips as I hear the door open behind us.

  “Henry, Paige, welcome. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” Dr. Abbott says as he crosses the room, pausing to shake our hands.

  “No, of course not, “ I quickly say, causing a low volume snicker out of Henry. With a gentle elbow to his side, he huffs then falls silent.

  “Great, so let’s see here,” the doctor, an older gentleman with salt and pepper hair, and thin-rimmed glasses, says as he examines the file in front of him. “So, how have you been feeling?”

  “Great—” Henry begins before I quickly interrupt with my nervous ramblings.

  “He’s been better than great Dr. Abbott., I mean, there was a while there that he was really struggling, and I wasn’t sure. He wasn’t eating, and he barely ever got out of bed. But in the past week or two he has been back to his old self. We even went on a walk a couple days this week.”

  “Yeah, what she said,” Henry jokes.

  I feel my face grow hot. “I’m sorry, I’m just excited. I know it’s going to be good news.”

  Dr. Abbott says nothing. He doesn’t look up, as Henry and I joke back and forth. He simply keeps studying the file in front of him, his face scrunched into an almost-frown.

  “So when can I go in for the surgery?” Henry asks, sensing my uneasiness.

  Dr. Abbott flips to another page, huffing as he reads the notes. Hesitating a moment more, he finally says, “Actually, it doesn’t look like we’re going to be able to do the surgery, Henry.” When the doctor says his name, I shudder. There is more in the way he says his name than in his entire statement.

  “I don’t understand,” I interject, realizing Henry is going to remain silent.

  “We knew this was a possibility when we decided to move ahead with the treatment,” Dr. Abbott continues. I look over at Henry who is nodding his head yes. It feels like I’m in the Twilight Zone, everyone around me knowing what is going on except me.

  “I’m sorry, what exactly was a possibility?” I question in a stern tone.

  Dr. Abbott looks at me with a sympathetic stare, and shifting in his chair so he can more comfortably look me directly in my eyes, says, “The tumor hasn’t reacted to the treatment; in fact, it has increased slightly in mass. There’s nothing else we can do.”

  “Wait,” I blurt out. “What do you mean? How can that be?”

  “We were all aware this was a likely outcome with this aggressive of a cancer at this late stage. Honestly, we were very fortunate we didn’t have any incidents of infection during the treatment,” Dr. Abbott informs me as if the terminal prognosis of my husband is something I should simply accept and make the best of.

  “I’m not understanding. Are you saying we should just be happy an infection didn’t kill him?”

  “No, I just meant—”

  “Please stop!” I say with a raised voice. “Is there any way we can we try the surgery?”

  “I’m sorry, it would kill him.”

  “Is there a chance? I mean, hell, according to you the cancer is going to kill him for sure. If he has a chance with the surgery we should do it. Right?”

  “Paige,” Henry’s voice is calm, and I feel his hand come to rest on my leg. “It’s going to be okay.”

  My head snaps back as I stare at him in disbelief. “This is not okay. I’m not going to be all right with my husband dying.”

  “There’s nothing they can do,” he says, which makes me suddenly feel sick to my stomach.

  “Now, we do have several grief counseling services available to you,” the doctor begins. I stand and, without a word, I turn and walk out of the office, deciding I’m not going to sit here and discuss all the amazing things they have available to help me cope and deal with the death of my husband.

  I’M NOT SURE how long I stand in the hallway, random nurses asking me if I’m okay or if they can get me something. I want to scream at the top of my lungs, ‘No, leave me the fuck alone unless you can create miracles.’

  When Henry comes out we don’t speak. I’m not sure he knows what to say to me. He’s the one who has just been delivered the news that he’s going to die; yet he has to worry about me coming unglued. It’s not until we make it all the way back to the apartment that I decide I’m calm enough to apologize for walking out.

  The apartment is bright and airy, all of the curtains have been opened and everything cleaned to perfection for our return. I approach the window, just in time to watch a few snowflakes fall through the air.

  “It’s starting to snow,” I say, dreading the talk I know we’re about to have.

  “Are we going to talk about what happened?” Henry asks, no interest in the weather.

  I turn to face him; he’s standing at the back of the couch, watching me. “I’m sorry,” I say in an almost whisper.

  “I don’t want you to be sorry. I want to know you’re going to be okay.” His words make my eyes fill with tears.

  “How can I say I’m going to be okay after hearing you’re going to die?” I look at him, knowing before I ask the question there is no possible answer.

  “I know it’s not what we wanted to hear, but—”

  “I don’t want to lose you.” My voice cracks as I interrupt. He immediately closes the gap between us, wrapping his arms around me. I crumple into him.

  “I’m so sorry you have to go through this.” He sighs, his chin pressing against the top of my head.

  I laugh, trying to wipe away the snotty mixture that’s now running out my nose. “You’re the one who is sick, and you’re apologizing. I don’t get you sometimes.”

  “I know this isn’t how you imagined wedded bliss.”

  “I feel like our lives are just starting. It’s not fair.”

  “No, it’s not,” he confirms. “But it’s what we’ve got.” I follow as Henry leads me over to the couch. He sits down and then guides me into his embrace, pressing my head against his chest.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask, hoping he has a solution to a problem of which, in my heart, I know there is none.

  He sits quiet for a moment and then clearly announces, “We’re going to stay just like this, as long as we can.”

  “On the couch?” I groan, pulling my sleeve up to my red nose and nestling my head deeper into Henry’s chest. I hear a deep rattle inside him as he laughs at my remark.

  “Well, for now,” he explains. “But, I mean more living in the moment. We keep each other living for the moment. It’s all we can do.”

  My breath grows shallow. I close my eyes, taking in his smell, soaking in every sense the moment has to offer.

  Three Months Later ...

  I WALK DOWN the dim hall, careful to be as silent as possible, so as not to disturb Henry. Pressing gently on our bedroom door there is a slight creak as it opens. I peer inside. His head is completely under the blankets, and I can hear him gently whimpering in his sleep. I want to go in and hold him, but I know this will only make it worse for him.

  Suddenly, my cell phone begins vibrating in my side pocket. I pull the door closed and back away carefully and quietly. As I make my way into the living room, I glance at the face of my phone. It’s Emmie. I haven’t answered her last two calls, and I know she must be getting worried.

  Reluctantly, I swipe my finger across the phone and lift it up to my ear, then flop down onto the couch. “Hello?”

  “Paige?” I can already hear the concern in her voice.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” I ask, as if nothing is wrong.

  “What?” Emmie grumbles. “Oh, we’re fine, but I’ve
been trying to call you for over a week now, and you’re not picking up. Is everything all right there?”

  I sigh, pressing my head back against the throw pillow behind me. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “How’s Henry?” she asks; I’m sure she can sense my mood already.

  I hesitate then answer, “He’s sleeping.”

  “Is he still feeling good?” she prods.

  “I don’t know. I guess he’s fine.”

  “Paige, what’s going on?”

  I exhale deeply. “I don’t really want to just unload on you whenever you call.”

  “Well, that’s too bad. That’s what friends are for. My job is to be here for you while you’re going through this,” Emmie insists.

  “I guess.”

  “No, no guessing. That’s how it is. Now tell me, what’s going on?”

  “I think I’m just frustrated,” I say heavily.

  “About what?”

  “When the chemo was over, it was like Henry woke up out of this daze. The medication Doctor Abbott gave him to manage his symptoms was incredible,” I explain.

  “Yeah,” Emmie interjects. “You mentioned last time we spoke how great he’s been eating.”

  “It’s not just his appetite coming back. Every night he wanted to go out to a different restaurant or meet up with friends. If our friends were busy, he’d make new friends. It was nothing like the homebody I was used to,” I continue.

  “You have to understand, he’s facing his own mortality, and that’s going to change him.”

  “I suppose,” I agree.

  “So what’s bothering you? His new lifestyle doesn’t fit you?” Emmie inquires.

  “Oh God no!” I exclaim. “He’s gotten back to a healthy weight and has been so active that I actually managed to convince myself that he was going to be okay, at least for a while.”

  “Well, sweetheart,” Emmie begins. “You don’t know, maybe we’ll be blessed, and he won’t get really sick for a while.”

  “No, that’s what I’m talking about,” I explain. “For the past few months Henry and I have been completely focused on enjoying each other’s company. He gave up his position at the firm, I’ve put any plans for my line on hold, and it’s been nothing but a focus on spending time together.”

  “That’s great, I don’t see the problem.”

  “Things started to change two weeks ago,” I answer.

  “What do you mean, they started to change?” she asks.

  I swallow hard; I can already feel the burning in my eyes. I hate talking about Henry and this fucking nightmare disease he has. “A week ago Henry’s pain began to exceed what his pain meds could alleviate. As the pain has been growing in intensity, I’ve watched him struggling. He moans in his sleep, and he has trouble even walking around the apartment.”

  “Can they give him more meds?”

  “Doctor Abbott says it won’t help,” I continue. “In the past ten days I think he’s had a total of about five meals.”

  “Oh, Paige.” I hear the pity in my friend’s voice.

  “I know. He gets weaker every day, and Doctor Abbott warned me that if I can’t get his eating under control, we may need to think about a feeding tube.” My voice cracks. “I can’t force my thirty year old husband to receive a feeding tube.”

  “Have you tried to find something that isn’t so hard for him to eat?”

  “I’ve tried everything.”

  “Soups?” she presses.

  “Everything,” I confirm.

  “What’s Doctor Abbott say to do?”

  The recent conversation between Doctor Abbott and myself flashes through my mind; it had been quite chilling. “He wants me to work with a hospice company, to assist me as he gets worse.”

  “Wait, wasn’t he fine two weeks ago? Isn’t that a little aggressive?” Emmie cautions.

  “I don’t know. He has me flipping out. He told me it can happen very quickly now, and I need to be prepared.”

  “For what?”

  “For it to get much worse.”

  “Maybe you should hire someone, Paige,” Emmie suggests.

  “No, not you, too.”

  “This is hard enough on you as his wife. Do you really want to become his nurse too?” she questions softly.

  “If that’s what he needs me to be,” I answer honestly.

  “Paige?” I hear Henry’s voice moan from the bedroom.

  “Shit!” I exclaim. “He’s awake, gotta go, we’ll talk later.”

  “Okay, I’ll call and check on you tomorrow.”

  “Bye,” I say before hanging up the phone, not waiting for her response. I hop to my feet and rush down the hall, sliding in my socks to a sudden stop at our bedroom door.

  “Henry? Are you all right?” I ask, pushing open the door and making my way across the dark room.

  “It’s my head,” he begins. By the time I reach his side I see that he’s gripping his skull with both hands.

  The rancid smell of vomit drifts up, gripping my nose, but before it completely registers, I feel my feet slip out from under me. Placing a hand down on the floor at my side, I realize I’m now sitting in a warm, soupy puddle of puke.

  “Oh my God,” I gasp.

  “I can’t see,” Henry moans, not realizing I had just slipped on his vomit. Panic floods over him, as I push myself up onto my knees, ignoring the mess.

  “Baby, it’s okay,” I say. “Doctor Abbott said there was a good chance you’d start having some trouble with your vision. Just stay calm, it will pass.”

  “Jesus, it feels like the room is spinning,” he cries. “ I think I’m going to be sick again.”

  I immediately snap into action, standing and pulling him up to his feet. With his vision troubles he is hesitant, but eventually trusts me. “Come on, sweetie, let’s get you in a nice cool bath. Those always help with the headaches.”

  I hear him whimper as we move toward the master bath.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, trying to look at his face, slightly swollen from the increased dosage of steroids he is now on.

  “I’m so sorry,” he groans, his voice cracking.

  “Henry, there’s nothing to apologize for.”

  “I love you so much,” he insists, as I set him on the edge of the tub, making sure he is secure before turning and switching on the water.

  “I know you do, and I love you, too,” I say with a smile. “Now let’s get you out of these dirty clothes.”

  He grips my arm, looking up at me. It’s obvious he can’t focus. “I shouldn’t have done this to you, and I’m sorry. You have to forgive me.”

  With all of my clothes on, I step into the deep tub. Henry never let’s go of me, but silently tilts his head from side to side, trying to figure out what I am doing. After I immerse myself, I tug on one of his legs and then the other, guiding him and helping to lower him between my legs, his shirt now drenched and clinging to his body.

  “What are you doing?” he mutters.

  “Shh, shh, shh,” I hush him. “Lay back.”

  He does as I instruct. I wrap one arm around his neck, resting it on his chest, and with the other I cup the water and gently comb it through his hair.

  I sink lower into the water until my lips are touching the tip of his ear. In a breathy soft voice I begin to sing, “I’ve got a daisy on my toe, it’s not real, it does not grow. It’s just a tattoo of a flower, so I’ll look cuter in the shower. It’s on the second toe, of my left foot. A flowering stem that has no root.”

  I feel his body tremble slightly as he snickers. “You’re so weird,” he grumbles before laughing some more.

  I ignore him, finishing my silly song; “I’ve got a daisy on my toe, my right foot loves, my left foot so.”

  I sit, holding Henry in my arms, the water now rising to his elbows. I think about the water washing away this nightmare, bringing my Henry back to me. I know this won’t happen, but I still think about it. Hope for it. Shifting in the tub, I lift a foot and use my toes
to turn off the water. I feel Henry laugh again.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  “Your story about Emmie having monkey toes—how she can pick up almost anything with them.”

  “What about it?” I question.

  “Just love that I have a monkey toe girl, too,” he says, and I watch as he closes his eyes, a deep exhale pushing out of his body.

  “Are you feeling better?” I whisper.

  “Yeah,” he moans, not opening his eyes.

  “I don’t want to be anywhere else,” I say softly. “I just want you to know that.”

  He nods; I can feel him drifting off to sleep in my arms. I decide to give him a few minutes before we get out. I rest my other arm around him and lean my head back, closing my eyes for a moment. I’m not one to pray, but here in this moment I find myself asking for just a little longer before this new stage becomes our norm.

  Two Months Later ...

  THE CURTAINS ARE closed. I am careful to make sure they overlap one another, not allowing any sunlight to sneak in between the folds. It seems like the only way this makes any sort of sense is when the place Henry and I had created together, as a home, is shrouded in darkness. I can hear Emmie’s mother in the kitchen, busying herself cooking more food than I will ever be able to eat.

  “Can I get you anything, sweetie?” Emmie asks behind me.

  I shake my head no. It doesn’t even feel right when I hear my voice. It’s hard to explain, but when I talk, it’s almost like I expect Henry to answer me. None of this new reality seems right. It feels like something I’m going to wake up from at any moment.

  Henry’s grandmother has taken care of the funeral details—where his body was to go—but all of the styling options are left to me. I wonder how people do this all the time. Choose a casket, a color for the fabric inside; do you want an image on the tombstone or just words? What music would you like at the funeral? Will there be any special words read at the service? I was his friend for four years and his wife for seven months. How can I possibly answer all of those questions? How could he leave me?