He packed for a summer trip to Maine as I crammed boxes for my new life in a pink house. Time was on our side. I knew nothing about colon cancer, but I didn’t need to. Ahead of us were summer, pills, radiation, dates, movies, friends, fun, love. It was the summer of possibilities as we held onto hope.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Tuesday, August 9, 2:04 p.m.
Subject: maine
we just got DSL at the house in maine,
so i will be able to write
(and hopefully read)
e-mails on a regular basis.
writing to you is very much
like writing a journal:
open, descriptive, consistent.
i am planning on bringing
both my digital still camera
and my video camera
to document the trip.
looking forward to showing you
just how retarded my family is,
how beautiful the lake is,
and just where and when
i would have wished you could be.
going to read lance armstrong
i think his book is just the thing
i need to read before jumping
into radiation and chemotherapy.
6 p.m. sharp.
let’s get the helloutahere!
…
“You can hug me if you want to.” I grabbed Anthony’s waist before he finished the word hug.
“Okay, I better head to the airport.” His arms left mine.
“Miss me.”
I know, I said it wrong.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Tuesday, August 10, 1:12 p.m.
Subject: in the tradition
of being seventh graders,
i want you to know
that i miss you already…
and i send you
all the strength i have
to help you with your heart,
and your move…
…
I owned very little, only a small U-Haul’s worth, but I packed boxes labeled kitchen, bedroom, and bath, taping cardboard and wrapping glasses as if I were moving across the country. Some dishes, a coffee table, bookshelf, books, clothes, and Gladys were the requirements. I packed only known belongings, and left any co-purchases Five Year might question, including Kala, our cat. She scratched him whenever he tried to hold her. I smiled at her curled on the couch, knowing she would be the first to comfort him home.
Okay, maybe I left her out of spite.
Friends dollied furniture to the moving truck. As the packing progressed, I felt fragments of regret while examining framed photos. What have I done? How did I let it get this far? I thought about the first time I met Five Year, the years, the moments. The day I moved into this apartment, his apartment. Our anniversaries, holidays…
“Come on, you’re slowing down.” Zach nudged my shoulder as I sighed. He crouched on the floor next to me and examined a celebrated snapshot of a past Christmas.
“I can’t believe I am really doing this,” I said, shaking my head.
“Me, neither.”
“Really?” I said, stunned.
“Really. It feels like you’ve been talking about this move forever. And, well, I thought you’d stay with him, even though you were unhappy. You kept giving it a chance, and it seemed like an easier option than starting over.”
That’s me, my usual pattern of always trying to work it out.
Zach grabbed the photo and placed it into the box. “You can’t change your mind now. All the boxes are in the U-Haul and I’m not about to unpack them for doubts.”
“He’s going to want to blame someone for my leaving.”
“Like himself?”
“I honestly think he did the best he could.”
“And yet he was still so selfish.”
“And now so am I.” I double taped the last box and labeled SELFISH STORAGE. “Time to be selfish.”
“How does it feel?” Zach asked.
“Hopeful.”
“Okay, truck is ready.” He grabbed the last box.
I kissed Kala on the head and whispered, “Be good to him.”
chapter eighteen
songs i listened to five years ago
I go to a support group now, five years later. I never really wanted to go, but I thought it would help and people kept telling me I needed to talk to someone instead of looking at old photographs and listening to remembered songs. There are a handful of people in the group, all of us sharing our stories of love and loss. They tell me it’s good to write down how I am feeling to help me deal with it all, and trust me, there is a lot to deal with. I’ve been writing, but every time I do, I don’t know what to write. I told the group that. Afterward a woman came up to me, placed her hand on my shoulder and said, stop writing about him and start writing to him.
chapter nineteen
i melt with you
I was flustered. I paced aimlessly in my office and dialed your extension four times before you finally picked up, babe. “What the hell took you so long?” It was Monday, our first day back at work together in over a week. I came in early because I hadn’t seen you in a lifetime. “Meet me in the stairwell.”
We didn’t talk, just kissed. Uncontrollably.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Thursday, August 18, 3:17 p.m.
Subject: smile
when you smile at me,
holding it just a little longer
than you normally would…
it just about makes me melt.
i know i’m not being chatty,
and i’m sorry…
but it’s mostly because
i‘m trying to jump back
into the workflow around here…
(feeling a little like a waste)
and i’m also trying to figure out
how my body is dealing with
all this new stuff
i’m putting into it…
freakedout.
tonight is for you,
fun in any form you want it —
i’d love to see your house?
"I Melt With You"
Nouvelle Vague
…
It’s probably my favorite memory; the one of us touring my 500-square-foot home for the first time. Seems so long ago, doesn’t it, babe? The memory is difficult to label and file. It’s bold. It’s the memory that keeps wanting to be remembered. You do that — you have a way of making our memories unforgettable.
“This is my bathroom.” I had only an AM radio, a full size bed, and a few half-full boxes thrown about. As we moved through the mini maze, we ignored the belongings that were tolerantly waiting to be shown their new place. “This is my kitchen.” Standing in the middle of the room, we circled ourselves. That’s all the room allowed. I showed you the pantry I loved. Do you remember how big it was? “When on earth would I need that much space for food? Isn’t it incredible?”
“You really are starting over, aren’t you?”
Gazing at the clutter of possessions, I said, “I am.” A long exhale escaped me. “Tell me something good?”
Your eyes met mine and you said, “You’re simply beautiful.” I know I blushed as you grabbed my hand, led me to the only furniture in the house, a bed full of towels and laundry. You pushed the disorder aside, laid me softly on the mattress and removed your shirt. You didn’t hesitate. Caught between the felt and the imagined, desire broke any apprehension. I unbuttoned mine. Your hands moved like waves over me. You untied the knots of my legs with your kisses and lips. Not a word spoken between us. There was little to say. Everything had led up to this point. I knew how you felt, and there was nothing more to reveal. I wrapped my arms around your neck, swaying my hips. I wanted to bury myself in you, get lost with you. My embrace alternately soft, then fierce. Laundry crumpl
ed between us. I held my breath until you finished. I’ll stop the world and melt with you.
…
Odilon Redon. The Barque. c. 1902
You attached a picture of Odilon Redon’s The Barque with the e-card you sent. Two people on a boat in the darkness caught between a description and a dream. You wrote:
i wanted to find a different way
to say good morning,
because this feels like a different day…
waking up with you
after a beautiful evening together,
was absolutely lovely…
a.
Beyond the visible, beyond the evident, that night I staggered into the direction I was afraid of. All the roads I had traveled, relationships I had twisted my heart for — they felt like part of another lifetime, when love was melancholy and the road was full of mud. I was burned out from exhaustion. And then I turned around and there you stood, just beyond the visible. I didn’t have time to get my mind straight. I was, very late that night and in the morning hours, caught by you beside me, on me, in me, behind me.
“When you wake up, is it me you want to see?”
“Forever.”
I tried my best to get out of bed, but your kiss convinced me otherwise.
chapter twenty
ache for you
It was the dawn of sleepovers, endless hours spent tangled in sheets, exploring our bodies, sampling positions. From the first night of intimacy and every night thereafter, we cuddled, groped, spooned, and adored. We couldn’t get enough of each other. (Okay, at least I couldn’t get enough.) I was your blanket, and you were mine. I wanted to confess, confide my love in the middle of orgasm. With sex I loved wholly. With sex I gave everything.
However — a HUGE, catastrophic, a something-everyone-should-know-before-getting-involved-in-a-serious-relationship “however” — there was also the lack of sleep. I never thought about sleep. The physical act of sleep, the simple REM stage needed daily. I worried about parents and friends; I wondered about compatibility and foundation, sex and intimacy. But sleep? Anthony, you were the WORST sleeper of all time.
There. I said it. Sleeping with you, disastrous. Disastrous might even be a bit of an understatement. Sleeping side by side with you was just plain terrible. You tossed and turned, adjusting and repositioning. Kicked off blankets. Rolled yourself into a human burrito with the blankets. God forbid if the blankets were tucked into any crease around the mattress. Your body was fiery hot, and your toes cold and clammy. Your feet hung over the edge of my bed, persuading you to angle from corner to farthest corner leaving me only the upper edge, coverless. Hallelujah if I still had a pillow by sunrise. Sex was simple, wonderful. Sleep, dreadful.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday, August 26, 9:41 a.m.
Subject: me first…
feeling awake,
productive, and good…
expecting to fall asleep
where i’m standing
sometime around 11 a.m.…
last night was beautiful…
and then uncomfortable,
disorienting, and ultimately hilarious…
so…
next time we have a sleepover,
can we go to my house?
where it’s quiet,
the bed doesn’t cut off my ankles,
and we’re not being serenaded to sleep
by the traffic on highland blvd.?
p.s. it was still wonderful. sort of.
"Ache For You"
Ben Lee
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday, August 26, 10:52 a.m.
Subject: Re: me first…
so tired…
clinging to a cup of coffee.
as uncomfortable as it was,
it was nice to feel you next to me.
even if your body temperature
compares to the center of the sun.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday August 26, 11:34 a.m.
Subject: Re: me first…
sorry you’re so tired…
yes, it was nice
to wake up with you
by my side…
and then wake up again…
and again…
body heat…
so?
i have CANCER, okay?
jeez…
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday, August 26, 3:53 p.m.
Subject: Re: me first…
body heat?
it doesn’t come close
to describing how
warm you were last night!
and the cancer excuse…
doesn’t work with me, buddy.
I’m glad it will be winter soon.
my own human furnace.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday, August 26, 4:28 p.m.
Subject: hmmmm
maybe we should go
to your house for a nap?
do you know what a “nooner” is?
hmmmmiwonder…
chapter twenty-one
secret heart
You do stupid things when someone you love has cancer. Like Google the disease and the outcome. You research treatment options and life expectancies. You look at pictures of individuals fighting the same cancer, of receiving chemo, of tumors and surgeries. You read about symptoms and side effects. You read about celebrities like Katie Couric and wonder if you could call her at home. Ask her how she did it. How did she care for her husband during cancer?
I remember — maybe not the exact date, but I remember the moment. I remember going to a bookstore, alone. I did it sometimes when I needed to clear my head. I told Anthony I was going shopping or meeting a friend. I just went to the bookstore. As a means to escape, I’d pick up romance or sci-fi books, or any other kind of novel I would never normally buy, and get lost in the characters. I’d spend hours reading first chapters.
That day I sat on the floor of the health section surrounded by books on colon cancer: books I never read, in a section of the bookstore I never explored. I skimmed through dozens of newly revised paperbacks, looking for a positive sign, a clear end to the disease, and an answer to everything that was happening to us. Printed books held more weight than the online garbage I had been reading. I looked, relentlessly, at book after book, page after page. I found nothing encouraging. Read only grim statistics and outcomes, numbers and facts and testimonials.
Even with apparent warning signs typed out in bold font, I ignored the facts and focused on what I knew. Our story was about love, not cancer. Cancer was someone else’s story, like Katie Couric. I put the dismal books back on the shelf and smiled wide. Our love was unique, even miraculous. Our love could cure cancer, even if there was only an eight percent chance of survival.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Tuesday, August 30, 3:05 p.m.
Subject: you’re right…
i should have written
but i called,
and wrote two texts…
and an e-mail after that
seemed to be a little obsessive…
besides, you’re looking way too sexy today
for me to deny a modest request…
i think it’s the happiness and excitement
of you producing, working hard,
that’s making you stand straight,
and fucking shine…
reminds me a little of when we first met…
oh god, this is turning into
another hallmark card isn’t it???
this is the second day
i’ve been off my chemo,
and i can feel the difference…
a reminder of what things
used to feel like…
weird.
but very, very good…
and my radiologist said
i am almost one third
of the way through my treatments…
i’ve done nine, and there are 28 in all…
crazy, right?
You were strong in spite of chemo and radiation, regardless of the occasional side effects. Your doctor prescribed pills, a rainbow of “just in case” options. I called them: “puke pills” to deal with nausea, “poop pills” to deal with diarrhea, “sleepy pills” for sleeping, and “yucky pills” for chemo. You know, clever names. We had backup pills in both cars, at my house, at yours, and at work. We were prepared to kick any side effect. And we did. We managed. Job well done.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday, September 2, 6:39 p.m.
Subject: aw crap!
I heard a rumor that you and I are dating?
no seriously, a co-worker said
he heard a rumor that we are dating…
(he guessed you, or Zach).
I laughed and said nothing.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Friday, September 2, 6:54 p.m.
Subject: Re: aw crap!
hmmmm… dating, eh?
well, let’s see…
next time you’re asked (or i am)
let’s have some other options available:
“no, we don’t go on dates, we just have sex…”
“dating? oh no, he’s just my rebound…”
“no comment.”
“we are 2 mature 2 be 4 gotten”
“is that what you heard? well, i heard you’re retarded. care to comment?”
the last one is my favorite so far…
maybe you have some ideas?
"Secret Heart"
Feist
…
I’m not sure who thought it was the best idea. Either way, we agreed. We’d keep our relationship secret until you were healthy. You didn’t want to be introduced to family and friends as, “My boyfriend with cancer.” I don’t blame you. I certainly didn’t want my grandma or dad to worry about me. I already had them concerned when I ended a five-year relationship and began living on my own. They were fearful I was making poor choices with my life. This would surely top their poor-choice list. And what if you got really sick? Or appeared sick? Or lost your hair? What would I tell them then? It seemed appropriate to keep our relationship secret. I’m not mad at you for this necessity. It made sense. In fact, I think it was my idea. Surely I wanted to tell everyone that I met someone, found true love. I wanted to share the very secret I had to conceal — my secret heart. But we put it off, agreeing, “One step at a time.”
Even if I Am Page 8