Even if I Am

by Chasity Glass

  I turned to your mother, confused.

  “The disease is moving quickly, too quickly. You have maybe a couple of weeks.” There was a brick in my throat, too heavy to swallow. “Hospice is a good idea at this point. I think it’s time to take him home.” She paused. “I’m so sorry.” She looked at me, and then quickly turned, crying as she walked off.

  I turned back to your mother. She looked right through me, waiting for Taline to turn around. Her mouth opened and she said to no one, “I thought I could fix him. That’s what mothers do, they fix their sons. I thought I could fix him and he’d be all better.” She looked at me now, unable to hold onto any feelings. None of this was real. I was hugging your mother, but none of it was real. Not my emotions, not this hospital, not your mother, none of it.

  I understood your mother more than I ever had. I understood her love, her need to fix you.

  “You can’t fix him.” I hugged her tightly. “I know, because I tried. But you know what we can do? We can keep loving him. We can tell him we love him, and that we’re proud of him. We are proud to love him. That we will all be okay. Because we have each other. We’re family.” Your mother softened in my arms. We continued hugging, taking deep breathes to recover.

  Her eyes looked startled. “Should we tell him?”

  “No. Let’s just go home.”

  Her hands were on my shoulders, staring back. “Thank you, Chas.”

  I nodded. “You go ahead. I need a minute first.”

  Your mother stood at your door for a moment, regaining her composure. I heard her say to you as she entered, “Good morning, sleepyhead. You hungry?” I admired her. I was amazed at her strength and grace. All this time we wanted the same things. We wanted to fix you. I stood there in the hallway, gazing at the chaos and confusion, looking for an answer, leaning on the wall. I slid to the cold tiled floor. I sat on the ground of the busy hospital hugging my knees trying to fuel my thoughts, free my vision of illness, of patterned scrubs, gurneys, clipboards, IV bags; free my eardrums of the noises produced by the nurses and intercoms calling out codes and names and blood and cuts and bruises. I simply sat there talking to God. I doubted him these days, but I prayed anyway, asking him for this test to end. For Superman to come around the corner and tell me Taline is insane, she shouldn’t even be working here, she’s all wrong. I waited, but Superman never came around the corner. I put my head in my lap and did the only think I knew what to do anymore. I cried.

  …

  I wish I could’ve seen Superman’s face when you asked if you could take me out to dinner for my birthday that night. I bet he grinned like a father does when his teenage son asks to borrow the car for a date. He agreed to a compromise, a night’s walk through the campus gardens. We had a curfew, after which we needed to be back in bed. The doctors unplugged the fluid hydration. We carried only a small pack of pain medication like an old cassette player. You pushed play to receive another dose and joked, “What should we listen to now. A little Transatlanticism maybe?”

  Even in the July heat you wore a sweater over your hospital gown and a blanket over your legs for warmth. Your mother kissed you good night on the forehead and left for the evening. I nodded at her, remembering what we agreed on. She smiled back knowingly.

  I wheeled you to the elevator and ran out the hospital doors. You howled, “Run faster!” The air was warm and soft, the moon shone brightly, lit our path around campus. We found a small park, only the size of a large backyard and lined with buildings and benches. In the center, grass, roses, agapanthus, large liquid ambers, maples and magnolias all in bloom. The air was fragrant and sweet as candy. Night stretched all around us, and bugs flittered in the park lights, dancing with joy. The sky was filled with stars. Everything shined and sparkled and twinkled as I gave you a tour of my hospital and the spots I frequented.

  “And here’s where I eat lunch when you’re at chemo, and over there is…”

  “Chas. Can you stop for a minute?”

  “Sure.” I stood still, locked the wheels of your chair and walked in front to face you. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I just wanted to see you.” Your eyes twinkled. “You’re beautiful. I know I’ve told you that 284 times, but I needed to tell you again. I think you’re absolutely beautiful.”

  I knelt on the concrete and kissed you with my nose. “Make that 285 times.” I teased tickling your cheek with mine.

  “This is a perfect night isn’t it?”

  I looked around. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

  You grabbed my hand and placed it on your cheek. “It’s not the night that makes it perfect…” You kissed my palm. Closed your eyes and nuzzled your features in my hand.

  “Don’t get all sappy on me now.” I kissed your cheek softly but firmly, holding back the rising sorrow. “Let’s go sit over there. I sometimes take a nap on that bench when you are at the day hospital. It’s warm in the sun.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I hate the idea of you sleeping on a bench. I hate the idea of you here at all.” Babe, I didn’t know what you were about to say, but nerves had you looking down. “Chas, I need you to know…” I sat on the bench, spread my legs and pulled your wheelchair in between, leaned forward and kissed the tip of your chin. “I need you to know… I love you.”

  You snatched my breath. I pressed my cheek again to yours. I got this urge to wheel you the hell out of there. To get you drunk, have my way with you like we used to. I wanted you close enough to take off all your clothes and bite your skin.

  I wished that time moved backward. That you were born with cancer and died in the womb. I wished we were there right now playing ring-around-the-rosie. I wished that the wheels spun in reverse. That the earth sucked the tomatoes we planted out of the air, back into their stem pulling them back into a seed of a ripe red tomato. That we were drunk then sober. Had dessert before dinner. That we read last chapters before firsts. That timelines were beginnings and not endings.

  “You’re the most beautiful, courageous person I know. And everything you’ve done for me has been remarkable and stunning. I don’t tell you often enough, but I think you’re amazing and I am thankful for every moment we have together, no matter how beautiful or trivial…” You became speechless and your lack of words wrung tears out of us both.

  “I love you more,” I managed to say. I wanted to reach into time and go back to the beginning, go back to the copy machine incident. I prayed to God as if I were God. I prayed that my embrace would repair you. Prayed that disease would leave you and enter me. Prayed that I could die for you, or at the very least, die with you. I prayed I too was dying.

  I prayed that I was powerful enough to heal you with the words I love you, and so I said it again with complete conviction. You answered, “I love you more.”

  I held your face to mine. I wanted you to see my words. “Babe, I know you love me. But, if there is ever a day I forget, will you come back to remind me?” Your eyes were sleepy, your head heavy. Crying was exhausting.

  “Yes. I will always remind you, because I fucking love you.” You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, tears streaming down both cheeks.

  “I think it’s time for us to head back,” I said softly.

  “No, not yet, fifteen more minutes.”

  We nuzzled our cheeks and eyes, kissing chins and jawbones and necks. “There is something I need to ask you. But not here. Promise me we’ll go out to dinner for your birthday when we get home.”

  “I promise.”

  chapter forty-seven

  jet engine noises

  Your stepfather arrived at our house soon after the news. He set up hospice. Everything was in place by the time we checked out of the hospital. Machines littered our home: oxygen tanks, blood pressure sleeves, stainless steel dishes, trash cans, antibacterial soap, stethoscopes, penlights, digital thermometers, bedpans, commodes. There were nurses, around-the-clock staff, a case manager and a nervous Gladys
to welcome us. The nurses wheeled you from the car to the steps of our front door, and when everyone tried to carry you up three stairs, you stopped them. You stood. You wobbled, stared at the stairs and took a deep breath before walking up the steps, through the entrance, and onto the couch. I know it wasn’t right to be so proud of you in that moment, but it was all I had.

  We assumed our roles as if it was another normal, everyday afternoon. Your mother made up the twin hospital bed installed in our bedroom next to our queen. You turned on the television. Your stepfather started cooking dinner. I fed Gladys. The nurse took your temperature. This didn’t feel like home anymore.

  …

  That night, and every night after, I couldn’t sleep. Your bed kept filling with air and slowly releasing it. I swear it was powered by an engine, a loud jet engine flying through our bedroom. I could hear your stepfather snoring in the night, or maybe it was Gladys. I started doing sit-ups in bed, tiring myself out so I could rest. Every sense around me had changed: sight, sound, smell, touch, taste. My blankets were heavy and I was afraid of the dark — afraid that you would abandon me in it. Life has a way of feeling worse in the middle of the night. I held onto the words you spoke earlier: “I don’t want you to be alone. If anything should happen to me, I don’t want you to be alone.”

  I wanted to kick your stupid jet engine. How can you sleep through that noise? I wanted the warmth of your arm over my shoulders, not this scratchy quilt. You were so far away, miles away. “In another bed” might as well have been another house, another state.

  Here’s the strange thing, what kept me awake for most of the night — I literally felt you moving closer to heaven. I can’t quiet explain it. I just did. I felt you sacrificing life, leaving everything behind. I remember sitting up to examine you, making sure you were still breathing. I watched the transformation of acceptance, of understanding, in the rise and fall of your chest, your half-opened eyes, the curve of your lips in a crescent moon.

  “I’ll let you hold me if you want to. Do you want to hold me?” You didn’t respond. So, I pulled the covers over my head. There was this sense of wonderment at the terrible, grotesque and sublimely beautiful shift that was happening all around me in our bedroom. I decided there was only one thing left worth hoping for. Under the covers I prayed aloud, “If you must take him, Poppy, take him soon, take him now when he’s sleeping. Take him with grace, and absolute love.”

  I inhaled and held my breath to listen. It was quiet, too quiet. I peeked over the edge of the blankets, sat up, looked at you. Panic set in when I didn’t see your chest fill. I nervously reached for your hand to see if you were still with me, and checked for a pulse. I see the curve of your lips widen, holding back a smile.

  “Tell Poppy I’m not ready to go yet.”

  I threw a pillow at you, “You’re such an asshole.”

  You laughed. “Go to bed. I can’t sleep with you praying so loud…”

  I threw another pillow at you.

  chapter forty-eight

  hold you forever

  Loving someone with cancer does strange things to time. It moves so fast and so slow. On one hand, it seems like yesterday that you were helping me load the dishwasher, bending down to hand me glass after glass to return to the cabinet. We were carefree and it felt as if we could live in that moment for a long, long time. And then time quickened: I woke up and, just like that, everything was different. I had to help you dress because you were too weak to do it yourself. We fit each arm in its sleeve, a slow, agonizing process. It fit you differently now; everything had changed, and it seemed unreasonable to me that it was the same shirt.

  …

  “Whatcha guys talking about?”

  Your mother smiled. “Anthony wants to ask you something…”

  “Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

  “Is that the secret you two have been discussing?” You and your mother said yes in unison.

  I’m not sure what made me so nervous. I think it was a mixture of fear and time passing and excitement and wondering why you were having secret conversations with your mother. There was no reason to be anxious about a birthday dinner. Yet, I had this jumpy energy dancing inside. I knew from your stepfather’s cooking all afternoon and your mother’s detailed decorating of our patio table that this was meant to be a special dinner. I felt even more timid after your mother requested that I wear the sundress you bought me for my birthday.

  “He hasn’t seen you in it. I think he’d like that very much.”

  My heartbeat grew louder as I dressed. Your parents made me wait in the bathroom to put the finishing touches on the evening. I could hear dishes rattling in the sink and mumbled conversations. Your stepfather came to the bathroom door and knocked.

  “Hello, Miss?”

  I opened the door, completely confused.

  “Hello. The gentleman you are meeting for dinner tonight is right this way. Sorry to keep you waiting. Did you have a hard time finding the restaurant?” I laughed at how sweet your stepfather looked in his apron as he offered me his arm as an escort to our reserved table.

  “Yes, yes. This restaurant was impossible to find.” I giggled. “There’s not even a sign out front — so like Los Angeles.” I blushed when I saw you. “You are a sneaky one aren’t you.” I shook my head as you stood to kiss me hello.

  Your mother approached the table, a towel draped over her arm, offered us a glass of wine. “My name is Nancy, and I’ll be your waitress for the evening.” Delighted, we grinned at each other as she informed us what was on the menu.

  There were flickering candles through our yard and around the patio. As if fireflies were blinking and swaying and flittering. Not the slightest breeze to ruffle a leaf, or sway a strand of hair — only temperature and flickering fireflies of candlelight and stillness. There was music, though. Ray Lamontagne serenaded the moon. I could hold you in my arms forever. The melody caressed the moment, following the shape of it.

  Your mother returned with plates of food and told us to enjoy. We both glanced at the food, grabbed for our utensils and started eating. You had a few bites, then turned to face me. “I can’t eat.” You looked down at your food and then back up at me. Puzzled, I put my fork down.

  “You’re the answer.” You paused, then grabbed my hands and held them in your lap. I could feel you shaking. “You are my answer to all the questions I have.” You stumbled over your words. “I think a lot of times my relationships were about trying to figure out myself, and the other person in my life — who that’s going to be and how they’re going to fit… but you, you fit that perfectly.”

  You leaned into my smile with little whispers and nudges and kisses. The music danced its way into my lungs, filling me with the importance of the moment. You were tender and huggable, squeezing my fingers tight. It was only you, me, and the melody. I could hold you in my arms forever. Forever, for us, was right then.

  “Chas,” you exhaled, “to have you as my wife, if only for a day, means everything to me. Will you marry me?”

  chapter forty-nine

  church bells

  Your stepfather called the Episcopal church to arrange a meeting at our house later that afternoon with Laura, the recommended Reverend for the ceremony. Your mother and I planned to shop for wedding rings at the antique jewelry dealer next to the church.

  The store was filled with dozens and dozen of antique rings. Each having a past and a story and a love attached to it. I kept wondering how they ended up here. Your mother and I made up stories for each ring we tried on.

  I must have scrutinized a hundred, before I picked three. I never thought I’d have a proper wedding ring. I’m one of those girls who likes turquoise or something different. Something unique, not traditional. We never talked about what kind of ring I wanted. I think girls think they aren’t the diamond ring types until they put on a diamond. I was a diamond girl. Your mother was busy sharing our love story with the salesclerk, as I kept staring at the diamond on my hand
, listening to her version of our love. I have a diamond ring on my finger. I’m engaged. The sales clerk handed us three rings to take home for you to choose which one to place on my finger.

  …

  “Hello, pleasure to meet you.” I shook Laura’s hand and stared at the streak of hot pink dye in her short, choppy haircut. She was dressed in a black shirt with a clerical collar and jeans. I thought she looked kind of edgy for clergy. She was round and witty. Your voice was faint, but you had this vitality as you told her about our plans.

  “We’d like to get married under the tree.” You shuffled to the backyard to show her.

  “What a beautiful garden.” She scanned the backyard as Gladys nuzzled her head under her hand. Laura scratched her ear. Your mother, stepfather, all of us stood under the elm.

  “What days are you available?” Your mother inquired.

  “Well, my schedule is rather busy. I do have an opening two weeks from Saturday.” We all nodded.

  “That would give us a little more time to plan,” your mother replied.

  Laura watched you contemplating the tree with a grin.

  “What are you thinking about, babe?” I asked.

  “I think it is going to be an absolutely beautiful wedding. Gladys will be the ring-bearer.” She wiggled hearing her name. You reached for my hand to hold it as Gladys stood between us.

  Laura contemplated our hands held, then Gladys. She looked back and forth between all of us who were still looking up at a tree. “You know, I could also do it tomorrow. I have the day off…”

  Gladys wagged her tail frantically.

  “We’d like that.” You responded looking at me, squeezing my hand tighter.

  …

  “You’re getting married tomorrow!” April, our hospice case manager, hugged me in congratulations. I think hugging was part of her job description and she was very good at her job.