chapter thirty-two
a change at christmas
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Tuesday, December 13, 3:55 p.m.
Subject: early
arrived a little early to the doctor’s office,
sat around for a bit until they called me.
(it was a little nostalgic to be back.)
walked to one of the exam rooms
with the doctor and assistant.
on the way, we stopped at a scale and weighed in
(this time only wearing a tee shirt and jeans, no shoes),
came in around 178 pounds.
don’t think i’ve weighed that little since high school,
maybe junior high.
the assistant gave me a gown
and asked me to change (oh great)
and then i sat in the exam room and waited for a doctor
for at least thirty minutes. (in a frickin gown!)
doctor came in, asked me a couple of questions,
then another doctor came in flustered
like she was running late,
and they ended up both discussing the surgery with me
took a look at the incision, complimented me on it,
referred me to the oncologist to talk about the chemo,
asked to see me again in four months (why, i don’t know)
and that was it.
no anal probe!
but an utterly purposeless visit.
came home and watched “the burbs” with jay,
passed out for a spell in my bed.
don’t know why i’m so tired.
getting ready to run out and grab some lunch.
am i going to waste this day as well?
hope not. hope some food will give me energy.
and you?
how are you holding up today?
missing me?
be well,
write when you can.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Tuesday, December 13, 6:26 p.m.
Subject: Re: early
sounds like another fun visit to the doctor’s.
they complimented you on your scar?
that’s fantastic.
178 POUNDS! You NEED to eat more throughout the day!
I’m worried about you…
and I sorta feel like Ms. Claus yelling at Santa:
“Eat, Papa. Eat! No one likes a skinny Santa.”
…
I worked late, then drove to your house. I sneaked through the back door, slipped under the blankets and behind you. My plan was to lay awake and listen to you breathing, listen to the night before everything woke up. You were my little spoon in the darkness, as I buried the front off my knees into the back of yours, my tummy nestled against your arch, my nose in the curve of your neck, I kissed your hair. “I am happy,” I mumbled softy.
“What are you doing here?” you said, somehow pulling me closer.
“I know it’s late, but I couldn’t imagine another night without you next to me. I’m happy.”
“I think you should move in.”
“You’re half asleep.”
“Move in with me.”
“Will you wake up in the morning and remember what you just asked me?”
“Probably not, but move in with me anyway, I feel better when you’re here.”
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Wednesday, December 14, 12:49 p.m.
Subject: fuzzy
i have this fuzzy memory of you last night,
perhaps it was a dream,
but you showed up out of nowhere
and rolled around in bed with me for a while.
after you left i actually slept very well
(didn’t get up once although i would have
gotten up for water if it wasn’t so cold out).
jay just left for work, which usually means
that i’ll get a lot of stuff done.
are you sleepy?
must’ve gotten home very late.
thank you for the surprise, it was delightful.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Wednesday, December 14, 1:17 a.m.
Subject: Re: fuzzy
last night was fun.
I like surprise visits.
I like throwing you off,
crawling into bed,
spilling secrets and cuddling.
do you remember what you asked me?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Wednesday, December 14, 5:19 p.m.
Subject: Re: fuzzy
finished everything for my HMO appeal,
drove out to kinkos, made the copies i needed,
paperclipped everything so it was perfectly organized,
and as i was sliding it into an envelope,
i noticed a giant typo in my opening letter.
fuck.
so i’m back home now,
reprinting and running back out.
but realized i hadn’t sent you an afternoon e-mail
(or a song yet for that matter, a christmas song).
i think christmas shopping is the first way
to start getting into the spirit of the season,
but my favorite one is to find a list of the best
decorated christmas light houses in LA
and then drive around and look at them.
we should do that when our social calendar clears…
january maybe?
putting my christmas list together,
and getting excited about it.
i feel a little lucky to be home,
and presumably to have time off
to get some of this stuff done.
but time’s running out!
okay, i’m off to kinko’s again,
can’t wait to be all done with blue cross
(again, for the time being).
fucking love the shit out of you.
yes, i remember what i asked.
“A Change at Christmas (Say It Isn’t So)”
by The Flaming Lips
You rarely mentioned the low periods or health concerns to your mother or stepfather or friends. I got the brunt of it. “Yeah, last night was a hard one. I couldn’t sleep at all. My back was killing me. I didn’t know you stayed up so late — that makes it even crappier.”
“It’s okay.” I tried not to sound as exhausted as the sentence felt. “Just tired.”
“I kept waking up, hot, uncomfortable. It was better after Gladys went into the living room but I felt sad, like you were cut off for some reason. I hate when we have nights like that. I like it better when we wake up, cuddle, and fall back asleep.”
“Me, too. Sorry if I felt cut off. I just thought you were sleeping well, and I didn’t want to keep waking you — your back hurt again? That sucks. I know you’re having a hard time sleeping as it is. I should have cuddled anyway.” I wished I answered in a pithier manner. “I miss your cuddles.”
“It’ll be interesting to see how we sleep together in a strange bed over the holidays…”
“OHHH! I can’t wait for Mexico!” I squealed, and turned on my charm. “Who says we’re sleeping?”
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday, December 19, 3:12 p.m.
Subject: mexico
hot fucking shit!
we have a reservation in room 18,
one that the travelogue recommended,
which has an ocean view and a fireplace.
checking in between 3 p.m. and 5 p.m. on the 23rd,
and then checking out before noon on the 26th.
you can also do a search for “hotel la fonda baja”
and see all the travelogue sites that come up.
we�
��re fucking celebrating, right?
i miss you, too.
getting tons done,
like wrapping presents.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday, December 19, 11:26 p.m.
Subject: Re: mexico
I want you to know
that I think about you
every chance I get.
that I catch myself wondering what you are up to.
I catch myself smiling
even laughing out loud
thinking of you.
I daydream of our trip to Mexico
while trying to focus on work…
and I wanted you to know,
That no matter how busy my day is,
no matter how sleepy I am,
or how few e-mails I respond to…
I wanted you to know,
I love you.
and I wish I could show you
just how much I loved you
every second of every day.
…
It wasn’t the gorgeous drive over the border, or the songs we sung while driving the coast. It wasn’t the perfect hotel view or the couples’ massage. It was Christmas morning.
Christmas Eve had swallowed us like the horizon swallowed the sun, plunging us into a long, languid night. We tried to stay quiet when hotel guests slept in the next room; felt the agony of trying not to laugh when our bed slid or we both wanted to scream. I remember our half-asleep talk of living together as we rolled around in todays and tomorrows. And then — Christmas morning, I remember waking to the trace of tiny kisses sneaking their way from my mouth to my tummy. You were in my bloodstream, crawling in and out of my heart, my veins, making it difficult for me to get the words out and simply wish you a Merry Christmas. I closed my eyes again, hoping my anticipation wouldn’t wake you. I thought about cancer and us and moving in together after the holidays and surgery and Mexico and the universe and all of the things I was grateful for.
Was it really only yesterday we drew our names in the sand and warmed our feet by the fire and shared words of hope? I wanted to do it all again, but you looked so sweet as the bar of morning light warmed your shoulder, strands of my hair still wrapped around your finger. I couldn’t wait a second longer.
“Good morning you. Merry Christmas,” I sang.
“You’re still here?” you muttered under my thousand and one kisses to your dry lips.
“Where else would I be?”
“Opening presents.”
Waking in white sheets with our legs wrapped around each other, my face resting on your chest, we seemed to fully become the time and place. Wrapped only in sheets and blankets, we handed out presents. You gave me the sweetest gift ever. (No. Not that one.) I can’t believe you had saved every e-mail I ever sent you, from the very first till the very last. It must have taken you weeks to compile such a present. It was perfect, the most beautiful collection of all the e-mails we sent, cut and pasted into a used art book of pencil sketches by an unknown artist. You titled it simply, “Us.”
Us on Christmas Eve, somewhere off the coast of Baja.
chapter thirty-three
in the sun
Saturday, January 7
in the middle
halftime?
intermission?
c’mon glass, there’s an analogy here somewhere…
with some argument from my insides, i can say now
that i have completely recovered from the surgery.
i am walking, moving, and living just like i used to.
and it’s fucking great.
most times, the thoughts of cancer, of surgery, of everything,
recedes to the back of my head,
and quietly lies down for a nap.
but they wake easily.
running my hand across my belly,
there’s a twelve inch reminder:
of the weeks past, of the months ahead.
visited the oncologist this week and got my chemo recipe:
one two-hour IV treatment of oxyplatinum every three weeks,
two pills of xoloda taken twice a day between treatments,
six cycles.
simmer.
for best results add supplements during treatment.
so here we are,
and i still don’t have a metaphor.
the short break before the last climb?
ewey, that’s cheeseball.
the deep breath before… aw gad, that’s worse.
honestly, it sucks to start over again.
to have worked back to feeling normal,
and to have to give that up.
but the last couple of weeks have been great,
and if anything, they are a reminder of what
it will be like after these six cycles are done.
that is something to look forward to.
on that note, i’ve included a picture from christmas in mexico:
chas and i warming our feet by the fireplace.
yum.
Our toes warmed by the fire on Christmas morning.
posted by Anthony Glass at 7:43 a.m.
…
I’m a pretty girl. I’m not trying to sound vain. Though, I think that is all your mother sees in me — the blonde hair, the pretty face. I’m not smart or talented or even interesting. I didn’t graduate from college. I can’t believe I told her that. “I was getting far more experience working than through education.” I wish hadn’t said that. She went through grad school supporting three growing boys, and I made it seem as if an education wasn’t important. Ugh. I’m just another pretty girl among all the girls she’s met before.
I don’t want you to think I hated her. I don’t hate her. It’s just when she came to visit for a random weekend, she tried to make up for the weeks she hadn’t been here. She’d fly into town for a biopsy or scan, stay for two days, then fly home. Babe, I’m sorry, but her visits were tiresome. She’d tell me what we needed to do for your health, what vitamins you should take, what your calorie count should be. Do you remember when she taught me how to properly rub your back, on your back? She moved my hand from your shoulder in order to show me the pressure points. “Apply pressure to both sides of the spine like this. Use your fingers and move your way upward to his skull.” My palm turned clammy with embarrassment. I didn’t know anything about pressure points. I started doubting myself. I didn’t even know how to rub your back right. What if loving you wasn’t enough? She could do that. In two days, she could somehow make me feel like a crappy girlfriend. I needed to do more, cook healthier, rub your back harder.
Okay, maybe I was starting to hate her. Why wasn’t she here more? Her son had cancer, for God’s sake! I was attending every follow-up, every treatment, every holistic opinion, doing everything I could possibly do. So what if I didn’t know how to cook broccoli in the stupid microwave?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Tuesday, January 10, 5:45 p.m.
Subject: hello there
i’m getting into the shower,
and my mom is sitting at the puzzle.
i wish you were here to help her with the puzzle,
and tickle me as i get into the shower.
so, my mom and i have been discussing the merits
of switching to the PPO versus staying with my HMO,
and i think i’m going to stick with the HMO
(assuming i am still able to do so).
with all the chemo i will be taking for the next few months
and potential follow-ups in the months following,
it seems like it makes sense financially to stay HMO.
you can imagine how much fun we’re having discussing it.
up next: 401k.
i need you here.
now.
help.
buffer.
something…
hope your day is going well.
&
nbsp; you really should get here soon,
i might kill her before long…
i fuckin’ love the fuck out of you.
work hard.
see you soon.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Tuesday, January 10, 6:15 p.m.
Subject: mom
have a good day with your mom today.
she is trying to help…
but yes, it will be wonderful to drive her to the airport tonight.
(did I just type that?)
know that I am thinking of you. like always.
(mmm, to tickle you…)
…
You returned to work, and we picked up our old routine where we left off. We forgave quickly, kissed slowly, laughed uncontrollably. I thanked God on drives home. Held heavenly conversations of gratitude. It was hard to believe only eleven months of strange steps traced back to the beginning.
Babe, we are a story about love, not cancer. Our chapters ended sweetly with the four simple words, I fucking love you. We believed that there was so much ahead of us that we had no need to look back at old chapters. We talked about cancer less. Our lips were fat with kisses and the words I love you. We let our smiles twist and turn, just wanting to be together. When chemo started I barely noticed the change in each day.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday, January 16, 7:30 p.m.
Subject: hmmmm…
how this day has gotten away from us.
no e-mail?
maybe because i’ve been obsessed with
going through my footage
and finishing this edit;
or maybe it’s because you came in this morning,
looking so fresh and so beautiful,
you kind of knocked me out a bit.
finally got some good news
from the last project.
the client loved it
and kaethy even read the e-mail out loud
to give me the good news verbatim.
nice.
now if i can just do something brilliant
with this new project.
how was the rest of your day?
why haven’t you come by to give me
any more kisses/loving/sweetness?
p.s. kisses and touching in the stairwell was nice. i like being back at work.
Even if I Am Page 14