The end of chemo was in sight. Next, we needed to get through surgery.
chapter twenty-two
rainy day
Counting down the days to surgery was like waiting for a vacation to Hawaii. I x’ed days off the calendar as you packed our suitcase. Hope had us high with anticipation. Though, with so much emotion came the inevitable rollercoaster ride of love fests and fights. Anxiety about a looming surgery led to crappy behavior — from both of us.
“What should I cook for dinner?” I asked one night.
“Um, eggs sound good?”
“Breakfast for dinner, eh?”
“Sounds yummy. Babe, mind if I lie down? I’m not feeling great.”
I thought I could be helpful, cook dinner and let you get some rest. I went to the kitchen, pulled out the frying pan, eggs and sausages. As the eggs cooked I sprinkled cheese on top. I never paid much attention to the details of cooking. It was a must-do task, and always tedious. My mind wandered to someday in the future, when “not feeling great” meant a cold or a headache. I thought of kissing you on our wedding day. I could see us summering in Maine with your family, splashing in the lake. I left the plastic spatula leaning on the frying pan’s edge, eggs bubbling, sausages browning and went to check on you. Babe, you looked so comfortable, warm and cozy. I wanted to jump in and snuggle. Instead I let you rest and went back to the stove. I grabbed the plastic spatula. Heat stung my fingers, and the plastic melted into my palm.
I threw the utensil across the room, shrieking in pain.
You came running to my aid.
“Never mind,” I snapped. “I’m fine.” I immediately pulled away then turned my back. I soaked my hand in cold water, removing the melted plastic from my palm. After cooling the burn, I hurried to the medicine cabinet and applied salve.
I looked for you in the bedroom. You were sitting on the bed, clearly upset. “Are you feeling better?” I said, calm.
“No.” You forced the word out between your teeth.
“Are you mad at me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause you told me to leave you alone.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Yes. You did. Maybe not those exact words, but I felt like you didn’t need me.”
“I didn’t. I’m fine. It’s just a small burn.” I quieted my voice. I wanted the conversation to head back to us in love.
“But I could’ve helped,” you snapped.
“How?”
“I don’t know, comforted you or something.”
“It’s just a burn.”
“But I wanted to help! The spatula melted into your hand.”
“Don’t be an asshole.”
“Don’t push me away when you’re hurt. I can still take care of you. I’m not helpless.” You were grasping for control of the situation; so was I.
“I never said you were.”
“But that’s how I felt.” You turned your head away from me.
“I’m sorry. It’s just a stupid burn. Big deal.”
Isn’t it funny how a conversation could just slip away from us, babe? How a long, awkward silence could fill the room. I stared at my burnt palm, then reached for your shoulder to comfort you.
“I’m not hungry,” you said breaking the quiet.
“What?”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause, I’m not.”
“But you haven’t eaten anything.” I could hear my voice rise.
“So?”
“Anthony.”
“I’m feeling nauseated, okay? I just took my puke pills.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“‘Cause you’re hurt.”
“Oh my God, it’s just a small burn.”
“I’m going home. I feel nauseated and the smell of your eggs is going to make me throw up.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I shook my head. “Fine. Go.”
It was my fault. I pushed you away. My burn was so minor. I wanted you to rest and then join me for dinner, not care for my hand. You weren’t feeling good. I’m sorry, Anthony. I was stressing. With surgery around the corner, side effects, and meeting your mom, I had a lot to deal with. I was pretending everything was fine between us — not even okay, but extraordinary. And when things weren’t extraordinary between us, I took it out on you. It was foolish, but I wanted to be strong, not struggling with uncertainty.
I ate my eggs alone that night. Then, led by regret, I e-mailed you.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Saturday, September 10, 11:30 p.m.
Subject: when did it become so difficult?
we have gone too far into the serious side,
that we keep losing track.
damnit, let’s have fun already,
stop focusing on the problems, on cancer
and enjoy the moments we spend together…
because if this relationship isn’t fun,
then what are we doing?
I knew you were mad at me, but somehow this was different. I screwed up. You made sure I knew; you didn’t e-mail back.
…
The smell of rain humidified the air. I hit snooze twice, three times. I’m convinced rain in Los Angeles should be considered a snow day, a break from routine, from working hard, and a day to stay under the blankets. Even Gladys didn’t want to undo the tight ball of her sleeping body.
Contemplating a fourth snooze, I heard a knock on the door. Doubtful it was my house, I rolled over. Another knock disturbed the chilled room. What the hell do the neighbors want at eight in the morning? I dragged myself out from the depths of my comforter and headed to the door. Gladys didn’t budge.
Soaking from the rain, bright yellow sunflowers glowed just under your chin. Babe, I was shocked to see you. Apprehension had me concerned what I was wearing; my polar bear pants that I’ve had since high school and a sleeveless t-shirt from a previous decade. Nope. Not sexy at all. I brushed the front of my sleeveless to straighten the wrinkles, then opened the screen door.
“I didn’t know you were coming.” I’m an idiot.
You didn’t say a word, just stood there in the rain, looking all cute and cuddly and sweet.
“Anthony, I’m sor — ”
“I love you more.” You interrupted. There was no time for apologies; we were too busy taking off wet clothes and polar bear pants.
“Thank you for the flowers…”
You kissed the back of my head as we spooned.
“I’m sorry I didn’t eat your eggs.”
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday, September 12, 10:20 a.m.
Subject: rainy day
rainy day at work…
i think everyone here
is having the same thought we had
when we were on your bed
(stay home and cuddle).
it felt wonderful bringing you flowers,
being a boy, and you being a girl…
mmmmm…
thinking of all the things
we could be doing in your bed…
reading, napping, loving,
glayds jumping up to get
in the middle of the two of us,
making oatmeal and coffee,
drinking hot tea in sweaters,
getting under your covers
and taking everything off…
fuck!
it should rain more often…
and what the hell are we doing here?
"Rainy Day"
Shuggie Otis
Shuggie Otis gave me the same giddy reaction that I felt after reading your first-ever e-mail. You know, I’m not sure when a honeymoon phase starts or ends. You hear stories about meeting “the one.” The characters comically extract themselves from problems and get on with their destinies. In real life, I didn’t know if I was
pursuing the right path or not, or how it would all work out — I could only hope that this ugly reality was part of attaining a fat, fulfilling love. This seemed to be the right time in our lives for falling in love, for paying off student loans, building credit, and house hunting. The time when we hoped for an engagement, considered having children — in short, when we should start making a future based on our love.
Yet, we worried about cancer. Babe, we’d get so caught up in coping, filling our days with tasks and to-dos, getting bogged down in circumstances, feeling angry at your diagnosis, treatments, and surgery. The worst part… Anthony, you’d be mad at me if I told you this sooner, but the worst part was that I’d get so caught up in it that I’d forget you loved me. I know it seems silly. How could someone forget they’re loved? I don’t know. But, I did sometimes.
chapter twenty-three
be mine
Friday, October 21
the first post.
This was the photograph Anthony attached to his first blog post.
this could be the beginning, or possibly the end.
posted by Anthony Glass at 9:54 a.m.
This was the first post to your blog. It was such a simple sentence. I didn’t understand what you were going through, I certainly tried, but I didn’t. I could only tell from an outside perspective the effects cancer had on you. Your blog described your cancer better than anyone could. It was a brilliant idea, the perfect outlet. A place for you to freely write out your tears. You told me you felt better for having expressed yourself, rather than trying to shunt your self-expression into unsatisfying conversations with friends and family. On your blog, you swore, threatened and raged about cancer. The world could read your clinical process chart on coping: at first anguish and confusion. Next anger and resolution, then comedy, tragedy, hope and despair. It was all there. If anyone wanted to know how you were doing, all we had to do was click and read.
Friday, October 22
(this was written on the 18th)
it wasn’t a long day, per se
but it’s getting late,
and a long pull from a tall bottle of beer
slows my mind enough that i can discard the to-do lists.
what was done and what was forgotten,
and just let myself appreciate the day
for what it was and what it wasn’t.
so often i am on the verge of easing,
but the small splinters jab just enough.
is it possible to be organized and together
without being a complete tightass?
working on it.
answers pending.
doctors.
assistants.
bureaucracy.
forms.
rules.
body.
health.
mind.
tumor.
blood.
organs.
fuck.
i’ve never been good at games,
bending when the rules let them.
and why am i the one that has to keep calling them?
keep pushing them, organizing them, fighting for my health?
this isn’t the way it should be.
they should be coming to me,
calling me to remind me, ask me,
help me, fucking fuck them.
i’ll fucking do it.
keep me conscious during the surgery,
so i can keep an eye on the fuckers even then.
such.
bullshit.
but why would it be any different?
cancer didn’t make me grow wings out of my back.
why would it make the health care system
suddenly efficient and simple?
alright.
enough rant.
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.
Even if I Am Page 9