“Mmm, this pork chop is delicious. Would you like to try a bite?” I actually offered her a bite of my pork chop.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Wednesday, November 16, 9:56 a.m.
Subject: and so
it is becoming late in the afternoon,
and the sun is setting lower in the sky,
lower than it should for this time of the day,
but i guess that’s the kind of light
and the kind of feeling
this time of year brings.
i know i must be feeling overwhelmed
because all i want to do is fall asleep,
and wake up when everything is as it was
instead of as it is.
at times,
i see this all as a good thing,
as life-saving.
i think about what this could have become
had i gone untreated.
other times,
i can’t help but feel frustrated with myself,
for not catching this sooner,
and think about how i could have prevented
everything that’s happening right now.
i think about the first incision,
and feel like i will be forever altered,
damaged, changed.
people lose limbs.
lose organs.
lose lives.
i am losing a part of my body.
a bad part.
i need to remember that.
this is a beginning,
not an end.
and you.
are you crying yet, reading this?
i don’t know how to describe
the way i feel with/for you right now,
and i know i’ve thanked you
for being as close and strong
as you’ve been with me
through this entire fucking mess,
but i don’t think you really understand.
after covering the entire emotional gamut
over the past nine months,
i don’t quite know how we’ve landed
in the soft and secure place we’re in right now,
but i am so happy that we have.
it feels like we’re fulfilling what we both saw
at the very beginning.
christ, is this melodramatic?
okay, i’ve got a ton to do,
and you just sent me a sweet text…
cuddle.
yes, the thought of it makes me smile.
i will call you soon.
and will see you shortly thereafter.
i love you.
"In The Deep"
The Velvet Hour
…
I was trying to put on a brave face. This stupid, lame thought kept creeping in, wondering if I’d ever see you again. I wasn’t ready to lose you to cancer. The idea was so overwhelming sad. It’s just a simple surgery. I tried convincing myself.
Maybe I wasn’t your mother’s favorite, and maybe I was trying too hard for her to like me, but I was thankful for her presence. “Can I make you some tea?” I asked, because I didn’t know what else to do. She was such a great source of relief, and I felt useless.
From: [email protected]
To: friends
Sent: Wednesday, November 16, 2:01 p.m.
Subject: real quick
you’re all fucking amazing,
and the support and love i have felt
for the last couple of weeks,
and especially the last couple of days
has quite simply been stunning.
thank you. all.
(especially york and julie for sponsoring saturday night.)
going in tomorrow morning at 9 a.m., surgery at 11 a.m.
and as much as i would love to see you all
while in a delirious, drug-induced state,
i won’t be up for visitors until the weekend.
so save your love until then.
and then bring it.
and give me a sponge bath with it…
yum.
below is the link for the hospital/department,
and if you have any questions about my condition
or are planning to come by to visit,
please call chas’s cellphone.
http://ccnt.hsc.usc.edu/colorectal
chapter twenty-eight
what sarah said
Cutting across a lonely patch of the 405 as freeway traffic steered south, Death Cab for Cutie sang “What Sarah Said.” Your mother stared out the passenger seat window. Our thoughts were miles apart but on the same subject: surgery. Sun lit her reflection and cast a mirrored image in the window, as perfect and poised as the original. She was graceful, calm, present. Or at least that’s how she appeared. I resented her for it, and resented her self-control.
All the times I thought this whole thing through, I never thought I’d be edgy and panicked on the day of surgery. After all, we planned this like a vacation. I thought I’d be as calm as your mother — or even that our roles would be reversed.
Hours felt like months. Being a passenger lulled me as I focused on the back of your head. I could have counted each hair. I needed someone to shake me before I went mad trying to compose myself. I hated the back seat. The back seat felt like rejection. I needed you to engage in conversation, to distract me, love me. The uncertainty of you having surgery held this tragic punch. Why? I don’t know. I’ve never even used the word colorectal until now.
I did the only thing I could. I searched for God. Everywhere. I looked for key words in the patterned fabric of the back seat. I closed my eyes, squinted as if He might appear when I wasn’t looking. I listened for a voice in the hum of traffic. I looked for Him in the SUVs and sedans that passed. I fantasized God (bare chest and crown of thorns) driving a blue Ford pickup, singing along to Bob Dylan, smiling, giving me the thumbs up as we rolled alongside. I looked for Him in every vehicle, even the BMW convertible I knew He’d never drive. I believed. Maybe not in the stories and biblical sense of God, but I believed in the power and love of something greater than good, something greater than us. When I was six I named God. My mother informed me that God “was the grandfather of all people.” I had a friend in Kindergarten who called her grandfather Poppy, and she told me she loved him very much. That Christmas, Santa Claus left me a white teddy bear with a red bow. I named him “Poppy,” after God. Poppy the Bear watched over me. Even at age six I felt safe with God, and I believed Poppy was my guardian. And this very moment, in the backseat, I prayed to Poppy again for help.
I rolled down the window to breathe Him in. I looked for Poppy in the air. Not a blink, not a breath, not a sigh of relief. I looked for Him on the beam of light through the window. He wasn’t sitting on it. I rested my forehead on the back of the driver’s seat, collecting my thoughts, praying as I picked at my cuticles.
Your one arm was steering, and the other grabbed my leg and shook it. “Babe, you want to listen to Death Cab with me?” The simple shake took everything I had. I turned my tears to the passing cars — where the hell is that blue Ford? — as you turned up the radio to let me cry in secret.
…
Valet service?
“It makes patients feel comfortable, gives them one less thing to think about,” the man in black explained as he opened the car door. I lingered. My eyes fixed on the massive structure. I couldn’t define where it began and where it ended. Your hand felt for mine, and drew me forward into the hospital.
We received nametags, badges for parking, and paperwork, and then assembled in the carpeted corner of the waiting room. Plants and fish aquariums, brochures, magazines, even lamps — lest the hospital feel too homey, framing us were an office door marked Admitting and a large window labeled Cashier.
I don’t know who was more thankful, you or I, as your mother filled in the blanks, writing names, social security numbers, and previous health issue
s. Your hand shook in mine. On the wall across from us was the hospital logo, hands opened with palms facing up. Underneath were the words, “We will raise you up on eagle wings.” A lump formed in my throat. By the time I read “wings” I could hardly swallow. I didn’t know what to say as you squeezed my hand tighter, my knuckles white.
Your mother gave you the pen. You signed your name. She handed over a check from the home equity checkbook. The cashier directed you to level four for anesthesia.
…
When you were six, your mother planned a family hike along the Tacoma River. She packed a picnic lunch with peanut butter and honey sandwiches, carrots and juice boxes. The plan was to hike down to the river, eat lunch, and hike back. Her boys could enjoy the sunny afternoon, investigate animal tracks, and dip their feet in the cool water.
I’ve heard the story a hundred times, and even seen pictures, but the first time I heard the story was in the holding area before surgery. You seemed to be as frightened as a boy lost in the woods, only this time you were wearing a blue gown, hair net, IV, and blankets. Even so, you stayed amused at your mother’s adaptation of the story, and snickered along with her description of being lost with her three boys in the woods. You’d interrupt with details, specifying which brother took the wrong turn. Every time the story is told, the blame gets passed around. Maybe your mother was so relaxed because she worked in a hospital, but in any case, her voice and her expressions remained soft and light.
The nurse came in and asked standard questions; name, birth date, what sort of surgery you were having, your doctor’s name, and then someone from the lab came by to draw blood. Your mother continued the lost woods story until the anesthesia put you to sleep.
…
I paced while your mother read. She and I said very little to each other in the waiting room. The air reeked of Purell, burnt coffee, and nervous sweat. I rationed my breath. I stared at my shoes, unlaced them, and then tied them tighter. I read a mystery that didn’t make any sense — mostly because I kept losing track of the characters and plotline. I stared at words on a page. The same page. Waiting. Waiting.
Two hours passed. I thought, I need a little help here Poppy. Tell me he’s all right. They had free coffee in the waiting room and I loaded up on a little more than healthy. I drank tea and water. The TV entertained itself, an effortless hum, flickering orange light against families waiting. A woman was summoned by a doctor into the hallway for privacy as I scrutinized the clock. Surely we’d be next. Three hours passed. I was driving your mother nuts. I could literally hear her thinking, for God’s sake, woman, would you sit down and relax. I waited for the doctor to enter. I stared at the vending machine imagining the taste of each item within. I planned our future, named children. Prayed. Paced. Picked up my book, put it down.
The doctor came in. There was only your mother and I waiting.
“Mrs. Glass?” We both stood. “Anthony is out of surgery, and everything went well, textbook in fact. There were additional lymph nodes that needed to be removed thus taking a bit longer, but we’re confident we removed the existing tumor…”
chapter twenty-nine
EEE. EEE. EEE.
From: [email protected]
To: friends
Sent: Thursday, November 17, 2:42 p.m.
Subject: anthony update
Hello Everyone!
I know you’re anxiously awaiting an update, so I’ll get right to it. Anthony is doing GREAT!
So good in fact that this morning — yes, I said THIS very morning, only twelve hours after his surgery — he got out of bed and walked down the hallway. An accomplishment he is quite proud of. This of course was only after the sponge bath from the cute nurse (no joke about the cute nurse, not a fantasy. I think it helped boost his motivation, either that or the morphine). His spirits are high (again it might be the drugs).
But, seriously though, he is doing REALLY well!
As for the medical side of things, they are running many tests, results that we will not know for days or weeks. We did have a brief chat with the surgeon who gave us a lot of optimism and said the surgery itself was a “textbook” procedure.
I’ll let you know how he is feeling, and will try to give you an update each day. As for now, he should be ready for visitors next Saturday and Sunday.
I want to thank everyone for their love and support. You guys have no idea how much it means to him! I can never thank you enough…
THANKS, again,
Chas
I called it the “shitty shift.” Work eight to ten hours, then drive straight to the hospital for dinner. I’d arrive and barely get a kiss before your mother updated me on the day’s progress. “He kept rotating his feet and ankles and moving his legs, even with the massaging socks on. The nurse already emptied his catheter for the night, though he ate at least four of the little plastic pitchers of ice. So they might need to change it again.”
You shrugged and said, “Num,” your smile still greeting me.
“He said his mouth feels like cotton and his throat is sore. Other than that he feels good. He’s stable now and due to be moved to a private room tomorrow morning. Also the nurse explained the morphine pump. He can self-administer the medication up to five times an hour by pressing the button, but not closer than ten minute intervals. He pressed it five times the first hour. The second hour only about every thirty minutes…”
Your mother’s voice was fidgety from the caffeine consumed throughout the day. She pushed you physically and was pleased with her persistence. “You should’ve seen him…” It was merely the first day and already I had missed so much. I hated it. “He practically ran down the hall…” You were smiling at her and I could feel my skin burning slightly as I smiled. I think you were on to me because you give me that look, the play-nice look.
After her fully detailed progress from your day she departed to her hotel for a comfortable night’s rest. By the time I arrived you were tired of talking about health and exercise and what you ate, crabby from being pushed to your limits, and physically exhausted.
“Hey you.”
“I miss you.”
“I missed you more.” I kissed your soft eyebrow and nestled nose to nose. “How you feeling?”
“I’ll give you a hundred bucks to talk about anything else.”
“I’ve got some work gossip?”
“Perfect…”
You were asleep twenty minutes into the conversation.
…
I brought blankets and a pillow from home, and settled into my recliner sleeper. There were constant intrusions throughout the night. Blood pressure checks. Blood draws. Flowers delivered at one o’clock. No joke, 1:00 a.m. There were bathroom walks. New IVs. Machines that thumped to heartbeats with monitors attached and ones that administered medications. Beeping machines. Breathing machines. There were weird fluids draining from your sides collecting in small, clear “grenades” that needed draining. Catheters. Random moans and groans of patients down the hallway.
Your mother arrived at six o’clock, refreshed with coffee. Perfectly showered, blushed cheeks, brushed teeth, pressed button-down shirt. She raved about the pillow-top on the hotel bed. If daggers could fire out my eyes they would have pierced her back, right where mine was hurting from the plastic recliner chair.
“Did you go for your morning walk yet?” She eyed me. “Did you walk?”
Seriously, I wanted daggers.
“No, Mama, we just finished breakfast,” you said.
I was starting to really dislike your mother. I scurried off to work puffy-eyed, foul-breathed, and crabby with a backache. The shitty shift.
From: [email protected]
To: friends
Sent: Friday, November 18, 1:33 p.m.
Subject: sent from work
ANTHONY PASSED GAS!
(He is totally gonna kill me for e-mailing this.)
That’s right! Anthony passed gas yesterday, and hopefully more today, which means he starts
drinking liquids! Quite the celebration here. YIPPEE! He might be lucky enough to get some Jell-O later tonight. His words: “I could tear the shit out of some Jell-O right now.” He is up and walking (four times yesterday) and sitting up in a chair (more activities to celebrate). His energy is high. He’s sleeping well, making jokes, typical Anthony.
We have heard only great news from the doctors. The biggest news, which I am sure you are all waiting to hear, is that it looks as though surgery has removed all the cancer present. Of course they are running more tests, and he still has some follow-up therapy, but he is on the road to recovery, and his doctors are very optimistic of the outcome.
So everyone smile, relax, and give Anthony a big kiss when you come to visit him on Saturday or Sunday. Hell, maybe you’ll even go for a walk with him down the hall. Again, he is thankful for the e-mails, phone calls, flowers, love and support. He is looking forward to seeing you all this weekend. Visiting hours are anytime. He’s generally up by 5 a.m. and asleep by 9 p.m. (naps not included).
See you then!
…
Your mother and I passed notes as we switched shifts.
They are hearing all sorts of rumblings inside his intestine. That’s great news. Sometime during the afternoon, someone came from respiratory therapy to check his oxygen levels. They left the little blue breathing apparatus, and told him to use it every hour (taking ten breaths, and expelling them). He tends to cough, and it helped immensely for me to rub his tummy and slightly apply pressure. It is very important he does this to prevent mucus from building in his throat and lungs, which will keep him from getting pneumonia. Make sure he does it in the morning when he wakes up. There is more Jell-O in the kitchen fridge if he gets hungry. Love, Mom
Before bed he ate some clear soup, Jell-O and a little tea for breakfast. He slept throughout the night. We coughed, blew through plastic machines, and rubbed bellies. Love, Chas
Even if I Am Page 11