Even if I Am

by Chasity Glass

  And in response, your step-dad said, “I am so, so sorry that Anthony is sick, and that he is discouraged. Just know that it goes with the heavy chemo, but should be better after the dose is adjusted. I agree it would help to have an outsider with whom he can talk.”

  “Yeah… we have good days, and then, absolutely awful ones. Somehow we’re staying balanced in between. The hardest part is not being able to be with him throughout the day. He hasn’t needed constant care until recently, and it’s been difficult to juggle. I find myself tired and at times a bit overwhelmed, but I’m trying to remain strong, too.”

  “You need to conserve your energy. We send you magical strength pills from the depth of our hearts.”

  “Thank you.” I was ready to hang up the phone.

  “We love you both, and think about you all the time. Give Anthony a hug for me, for his mother too. And Gladys, too. We’ll call you later in the week.”

  “I will. It was nice chatting with you, give my love.”

  …

  Monday, June 5

  today

  mondays.

  some of you will roll your eyes when you read this,

  but i never really had anything against mondays.

  in fact, there was a part of me that kind of

  looked forward to them: a new week. beginnings.

  when i started chemo at USC, and it was determined

  my visits would be weekly, i was asked,

  “is monday okay?”

  “perfect,” i said.

  now i’m not sure how many weeks i’ve been at it over there,

  but some things have changed during that time:

  my skin (see earlier posts)

  an aversion to needles (huuuhwhabrrrk!)

  mondays suck.

  it’s a pavlovian thing, you see.

  like a trained dog, my body has come to understand

  what it means when i wake up monday morning,

  drive to the treatment center,

  plug that IV to my arm,

  and take it in.

  it means yuck.

  it means a week of getting your ass kicked all day

  by an opponent you can’t even see.

  it means getting one bite into a delicious meal

  and almost throwing up on your friends.

  it means tons of sympathy from your friends

  and unending pampering from your girlfriend

  (but that’s not helping the point, so skip that).

  coming home after treatment

  i tend to feel like a toxic waste mop,

  and so, i’ve decided to do

  what any responsible person would do when

  their body is filled to the brim

  with chemicals and experimental drugs:

  write.

  i’ve fallen into the habit of waiting

  for something significant, or a scrap

  of good news to sit down and blog.

  bad habit.

  writing heals

  and in this case, it also informs.

  so, for the sake of my health,

  and for the sake of this blog,

  mondays are now also for writing.

  see you then (and maybe in between).

  posted by Anthony Glass at 5:46 p.m.

  …

  I’d be lying if there weren’t moments I begged for reasons not to go to treatment. I wanted to call in sick to you being sick. It’s not a matter of the hospital that bothered me; that was something I was getting used to. However, treatment, chemo — that was something I could never get used to.

  Recliner after plastic blue recliner separated by a curtain. Every chair out of thirty occupied. It was never quiet at the day hospital. Each chair faced another chair, a twelve-inch television screen suspended inches from patients’ thinning faces, distracting them with soap operas and talk shows. Nurses weaving in and out of curtains and thirty blue plastic recliners filled with bodies receiving a concoction of drugs. Some people appeared sick, others became sick. Do you remember the time there was a code blue sitting next to us? Scared the crap out of me. I don’t even know what code blue means, but the staff took it very seriously. Curtains were drawn, gasps heard, we never found out the outcome and I was totally okay with that.

  The unknown of treatment was frightening. People talked to themselves. Cried. Coughed. Vomited. Pissed. There was hardly any real space in the four feet that separated the blue recliners. I had a difficult time angling myself to hold your hand, kiss you on the forehead or watch TV. You’d wear sweats and button-down flannels. Your body hot, then cold, hot, cold. The nurses were always checking temperatures and blood pressures and changing bags suspended on IV poles. Rummaging through drawers full of tape, needles, tools, gauze. Every time we went to the day hospital a nurse asked if you had a direct line, then poked your bruised arm with another needle.

  I don’t know if you knew this, but you weren’t like the rest of the patients, babe. When all the others were receiving intravenous drugs, distracting themselves with television, you’d happily listen to music, at times singing loud enough for a neighbor to hear. You’d nap through hours of chemo listening to the Liquid Meditations CD your mother gave you, but bands like Coldplay and Great Lake Swimmers and The Editors and Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah — those were the ones you’d sing to. Here’s what made you stand apart: When you sang, you radiated this warmhearted awareness of something bigger. Something bigger than everything and everyone. Like you knew something the rest of us didn’t, a knowing beyond knowing. You could catch it in the way you sung, see it in the corners of your smile. It made me want to climb inside you. Be closer to hear the heartbeat of your truth, hear the music of your divine understanding. I guess looking back on it, it kind of makes sense that you were happy. You understood the beauty of it — that cancer could be a blessing of focused time shared.

  There was a kid a few years younger than us who’d pretend he was fishing while getting his latest dose. He’d cast, voicing the twirling noise the line makes, then a splash sound. He’d smile at you with a head nod. He too knew of something bigger, bigger than everything and everyone. He caught a rainbow trout once, four pounds of splashes and noise. You kept singing Coldplay as you handed him the net. “Lights will guide you home. And ignite your bones…” He, too, started singing as you took an imagined photo of his prized catch.

  chapter forty-two

  house of cards

  I have kept a secret that you need to know. It happened when I was in New York. I wanted to go to New York — that’s not the secret, but I’ll get to that. Sure, Kaethy imagined it would be hard for me to leave you, but she also felt it was a huge work opportunity. One I shouldn’t pass up. I have no idea why interviewing yet another filmmaker and fashion designer in New York meant something to me, maybe it was a way to hold on to my own life, I don’t know. Somewhere between cancer and career and life I became this middle-aged woman. After exhaustion called me, after care-giving duties were finished, and after you were fast asleep, I’d go to bed. I’d wake up throughout the night with to-do lists running through my head, with tasks I was certain I forgot. I felt beaten and ragged by Sunday, then started the work week all over. I’m not complaining. It gave me a sense of purpose. But, New York felt spontaneous. It felt strange, wrong even, to escape, but I went. I drafted an e-mail to friends asking for help while I was away. Reassurance I guess.

  I started typing:

  Dear Friends,

  As you all know, Anthony is undergoing a new round of chemo with an oncologist he calls “Superman.” What he hasn’t told you is that this round of chemo is more intense, with somewhat uncomfortable side effects…

  I didn’t send the e-mail. Instead, I called my mother. I would fly her out to care for you and help around the house while I’d be in New York. She would drive you to chemo on Monday; I’d be back Wednesday. First, though, I had to tell her you had cancer.

  From: anthonyglass@gmail.com

  To:
chasityrae@gmail.com

  Sent: Monday, June 5, 8:20 p.m.

  Subject: multitasking

  no multitasking when i call you at the office.

  don’t you remember me?

  i’m the guy who wants your undivided attention?

  just a little sting when we got off,

  felt like i was talking to a third of you…

  sucked.

  missed you today.

  hope you get home soon.

  love.

  From: anthonyglass@gmail.com

  To: chasityrae@gmail.com

  Sent: Tuesday, June 6, 2:23 p.m.

  Subject: i am sorry

  for sending you a sour e-mail yesterday.

  i know i don’t e-mail you as often as i should

  so i thought i’d say something nice…

  like i think you’re amazing

  and somehow managing to do so much

  at work, here at home, and everywhere in between…

  and i love you in each and every one of those moments.

  i hope today is going well,

  i hope to see you soon,

  i hope to give you a big smooch when i do.

  love.

  …

  We go through things. We hold on. We let go. We accept and forgive. We stay still when everything keeps moving. We regret things. We applaud ourselves. We go to New York for opportunities. We stop. We pause. We breathe.

  That’s what I was doing, breathing. The day I left, I was excited for New York. With my mom now at the house, I didn’t feel going to New York was such a bad idea. I relied on my mom. Sure, her chattiness and frivolous conversation could get irritating, but this was her job — making patients feel at ease — and she was good at it. She had an excellent home heath aide resume, the perfect person to trust with your care. You seemed to like her well enough for me to feel comfortable leaving you. After all, I’d be gone only three days.

  At the airport my tummy flipped and turned, tossed and gurgled. I assumed it was the overwhelming feeling of driving away in a taxi, leaving you behind, waving on the doorstep. We hadn’t spend three days apart, since you were diagnosed. Three days with no Ensure, cotton swabs or butterscotch candies to help with nausea during chemo. Three days of selfish me in New York City, conversing with edgy filmmakers, flashy fashion designers, and then a hit Broadway show. I was feeling a bit nauseated by it all, but chalked it up to excitement.

  As I boarded my flight the wave of nausea hit me, again. Hard and sour. I sat down, buckled my seatbelt — window seat always, the middle was empty and a man sat on the aisle. I gave him a quick hello, swallowing the tart taste in my mouth. He wore just enough cologne to remind women of sex and men of competition. He smiled back. The engine started. Another wave of nausea. I grabbed for the paper barf bag and filled it.

  “Usually people don’t get sick until they’re in the air,” his English accent teased.

  “I am so sorry. Nerves I think.” I lied. I’d flown dozens of times. I was sick, legitimately sick, and now I had a five-hour flight with the stomach flu.

  The first two hours of the flight weren’t too disagreeable as I closed my eyes and took a nap only to wake to more nausea. I filled the bag from the empty seat next to mine. Not discreet and unnoticed. Nope. I threw up loud torturous vomits causing nearby passengers to gag. The handsome man next to me didn’t flinch. He handed me his pretzels to soothe my stomach.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, food poisoning I think. I’m sooo embarrassed.”

  “Ahh, don’t worry. It happens to the best of us. We’re just lucky we aren’t flying to New York when it does.” I laughed as he handed me the ginger ale he requested from the flight attendant.

  …

  His name was Chris. We shared a cab ride from the airport to our nearby hotels. He was easy to converse with and even easier to laugh with. I told him all about us, about how we met. I didn’t think it would be such a long story, but it was. You know how I can talk too much sometimes, like my mother, especially when I tell a story. Except, it was our story. I can always talk too much about us. It was a long cab ride, and he listened.

  I started our story with the comical moments at the office, the romantic ones in your truck. I’d even shared the time you drew a heart in the palm of my hand. Seriously. I told him that one. Secret’s out, babe. And yes, I told him how sexy you are. Showed him the picture of us I keep in my wallet.

  My favorite family photo of us, all taking a nap.

  …

  Of course I left some stuff out like the day it rained and you brought me flowers, but I started the story at the beginning. I started it with the usual, “My God, he’s hot.” It didn’t sound the same. I was waiting for you to cut me off in mid-sentence and carry on with the details, so I could finish with a funny one-liner. Admit it. We told stories better together. It wasn’t the same telling one without you.

  But, something happened when I told the story. I started describing your cancer. Cancer was never a part of our story before, yet here it was. I felt the current of the story pulling me down. Anger had surfaced and somewhere in sharing our love story, I was left with hopeless anticipation to finish the narrative and skip to the good parts, the love parts. It felt as if I was telling someone else’s tale. I rolled down the taxi window for air.

  “So, tell me about you? Girlfriend?”

  “Let’s meet up for drinks tomorrow night and I’ll tell you all about her.”

  “I am going to see a Broadway show, but afterward? Is ten too late?”

  “I’ll see you then. The cab ride is on me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry about everything that you are going though…” He leaned over and opened the cab door from the inside.

  “Again, thank you.”

  “Go, get some rest, I’ll see you in the lobby at ten.”

  From: anthonyglass@gmail.com

  To: chasityrae@gmail.com

  Sent: Thursday, June 8, 10:04 a.m.

  Subject: busywork

  awake, paying bills online and doing other busywork.

  (expecting to pass out at any second.)

  your mom’s taking a shower

  to-do list awaits, just as soon as the rest of the world

  wakes to meet us… early… Sleepy.

  hope you’re waking up this morning feeling rested and good,

  knowing your work is behind you, and leisure ahead.

  i wish i was going to the play with you tonight,

  that would be fun.

  zach is supposed to be coming over tonight

  to watch the first game of the finals.

  flaked on york and julie yesterday,

  so i’ll invite them over also.

  wish you were here to enjoy it with us.

  enjoy your new york minute.

  i’ll call you soon.

  love.

  …

  Chris was there promptly at ten, looking pressed and classy and gentlemanly. He gave me a lingering hug then complimented my curves declaring the dress stitched to fit my body. Bashful, but showing my appreciation of kindness, I grinned. We headed to a quiet bar six blocks from my hotel as we teased, over-exaggerating our first impressions — I assumed he was gay in his pale pink v-neck. He guessed I was pregnant with a bastard child and flying to NY to tell the father. We laughed at our pointless first impressions.

  I was feeling better. The food poison had run its course and now I was thankful to be showered, refreshed and in New York City. It had been such a long time since I put on a party dress and heels and lipstick and sexy underwear and dangling earrings. I thought about you, Anthony, and I called you right before I left and said my I love you’s and described my day. I never told you that I was sick on the flight because I didn’t want you to worry. And, I have to be honest, this is the secret I never told you. I didn’t tell you that I went out for drinks, or that I met a charming Englishman or that I felt indulgent wearing earrings. I didn’t
know what to say, so I told you nothing.

  …

  Chris was blond and foreign, short but built. He was the complete opposite of you. Maybe that was his appeal. His body was filled and full, feeling safe when he hugged me hello. I wondered what his chest would feel like pressed against mine when he lay on top of me. Don’t be mad. I thought that. I’m still a girl. I still think things like that, sexy things. I forgot what it was like to be desired, pursued, to feel girly.

  Drink after drink turned into late night pizza, and after pizza we walked through the city, laughing loud and languid. I heard about his relationship dramas and heartaches. He told me about his girlfriend, how they lost a child and struggled to get past the loss. We shared our love for the unrehearsed, unexpected moments in life as we explored the powerful meaning of our hearts and minds. I’m making it sound wordy and romantic, because it was.

  He escorted me back to my hotel. My arm slipped into his. When we got to the door, I invited him up to my room. “Do you wanna raid the mini bar with me?” I whispered it in his ear, before I even thought of what I said. He reached for my hand, sex on the tips of our fingers as we hesitated at the elevator door. Both of us restless for feeling something other than our real lives. The elevator doors opened. He squeezed my hand tighter. It was the wrong time to be cheating on you. I know it was a crime and I had absolutely no excuse. I turned to Chris, my losses and gains blurred, the energy of the present moment squeezing my hand — I held my breath as he leaned closer to kiss my lips. I turned my head.

  “I can’t do this,” I said.

  He kissed my cheek and the corner of my smile in a breathless exquisite kiss. “I hope someday, someone loves me as much as you love him.”