Even if I Am

by Chasity Glass

  The ceremony was short, effortless and untouched. You never took your eyes off your mother’s adoring silent sentiments. She marked a cross on your forehead in holy oil as you closed your eyes receiving the prayer with a euphoric welcome.

  “Baptized in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

  Amen. I took another photo.

  …

  My heart felt as if it might break through my bones, rip out of my chest and land in your lap, offering itself to you wholly, thanking you for you. My heart wanted to go with you wherever you went. It wanted to find a home in the pocket of your pink shirt. Become a neighbor to your heart. You could knock on my heart’s door and borrow a cup of sugar to make sweet tea. We could sip that tea and discuss our day.

  I felt it most when I watched you sleep. I couldn’t imagine that you were comfortable, curled up in your wedding clothes, though you appeared to be. Your breath, slow and irregular, told me more than words could. It sounded like there was foam in the back of your throat. I swallowed. I assumed it was the higher dose of pain medication you were now on. I tried to give you a drink, but you were too sleepy to wake. Instead you smiled at something happy, wrapped in dream I would never see. I wished I could crawl into it with you, where hearts beat and pulses rise and hopes are high. I tucked the inch of overgrown hairs behind your ear, noticing the beads of perspiration shining alongside the oiled cross on your forehead. Your hand still a tight fist on your chest. Your wedding ring two sizes too big, in danger of slipping off. You were still grinning, fast asleep clutching your wedding ring hand placed perfectly on your chest to keep it safe.

  I snuggled into the twin bed and alongside your warm body. I couldn’t resist you a moment more. “Hello, husband,” I muttered to the side of your neck.

  You reached for my arm to pull me closer. “I just had the most amazing dream.”

  “You did? What did you dream?”

  “I dreamt I married an angel.” You held up your fist, still tight, ring still on. I leaned in and brushed your shoulder with my lips, then gently curled up closer, resting my arm across your chest and whispered. “I love you, hubby.”

  “I love you more, wifey.”

  …

  We invited twelve people to our wedding reception, and twelve came. I thought you could spend some time with Jane, Zach and Jay before the party started. They hadn’t seen you in weeks, if not months. I never asked if you wanted a reception — I told you. That’s what spouses do.

  As guests arrived they congratulated your parents and hugged me hello then asked to see you. We knew most of your friends would be overwhelmed by your appearance. I knew I needed to prepare them.

  “I know it’s been a while since you’ve seen Anthony, but there are some things I need to tell you first.” I told them that you had lost a bit of weight. When you closed your eyes to sleep, they didn’t shut fully. Your skin and eyes were yellow. That today, after the ceremony, you were on oxygen and a stronger dose of pain medication. I told them that you were frail, but absolutely coherent and that you would do your very best to whisper something back.

  I woke you from your nap. “Hey, babe, Jane is here to see you.”

  You smiled the second you saw her. I wanted to give her private time to share with you and tell you everything she needed to say.

  She gave you a kiss on the cheek. “Hello.”

  After a few minutes with Jane, I went to check on the two of you. Your expressions were timid, trying to stay awake. “Jane, can you help us out in the kitchen?”

  “Absolutely.” She was upset but remained collected.

  “Sorry, babe, but you have to share your time. Jay is here now. Would you like to say hi?”

  …

  I prepped every friend, then left the room, helping in the kitchen, greeting more guests. I would return after a few minutes passed to make sure your energy was holding up, that you were drinking your Ensure, that you didn’t need help to go to the bathroom. You were getting worn out, even after the first visit. You and I guessed it was going to be emotional for your friends. You were going to be as hopeful and as cheerful as you could. Yet, I don’t think we really factored in how equally emotional it would be for you, or how tiresome. Jay’s visit was the most affecting. I prepped him. Left the room, then came back after ten minutes.

  When I entered and you mumbled to Jay, “Jaybone, I love you. It’s going to be okay.” Jay left the room, and you began to cry. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”

  “I know.” I rubbed my nose in your hair. “I know.”

  “Thank you.” You grabbed my arm tightly, not wanting me to leave your side, “Wife.”

  Bill and Sam entered the room with their new baby girl, Dakota, maybe a couple months old. You held up your fist and said, “I’m a spouse. Maybe I’ll be father someday, too.” Dakota was the first to giggle. Your eyes lit when you heard her.

  I slipped out of the room and eavesdropped on Jane and Jay in the kitchen. “I can’t believe Glassanova got married,” Jane said. I poured myself a drink and pretended I didn’t hear.

  I remember telling everyone the story of your proposal, of your parents as waitstaff, and the food. I remember posing for a picture. You weren’t in it. We were toasting our wedding day. Your parents and I thought it best to let you rest while we cheered with the other guests. Someone gave a speech — your mother maybe. I just remember fighting back tears, but smiling, a nothing-held-back kind of one. I wanted to crumble now, in front of them. I didn’t. Instead, I raised my glass, ate grocery store chocolate cake. Nothing fancy or prepared for the event, a generic chocolate cake with white frosting roses on top. I saved you a bite, one with fudge in the middle. Chocolate cake and ice cream, fat love in a bite.

  You stayed in bed as guests filed out begrudgingly, wanted to say goodbye one last time. No one wanted to leave. They would have stayed all night if given the chance.

  …

  I unpinned your corsage, placed it gently on the nightstand as you looked at me with love. “It should be forever,” you told me in barely a whisper, harmonizing over the oxygen filling tubes. “God told me…”

  “A — ” was all I could voice before the tears came, wetting the words. I could not speak. A simple I love you seemed perfect on our wedding night, yet I couldn’t even say your name. Instead I brought my cheek to yours, nestled and kissed your earlobe. Our lashes intertwined as the oxygen tube, soft and cold, nuzzled between. The world stood still in our house, in our bed, in our burrowed expressions. It should be forever, and it was. We lived in our forever with kisses, and tears, and the right-then.

  “Promise me you’ll be okay when I’m gone,” you said as my cheek brushed against your lips.

  “I promise,” I lied.

  …

  “I think you should sleep in the room with us tonight,” I said to your mother.

  “But it’s your wedding night.”

  “I know… I know. It’s just…” I paused. I searched for the right words, but none seemed fitting so I just blurted sentences. “Anthony’s lived his life fully today. He married his love. He got to see his friends and say goodbye. He got to hear their love for him and share his own. He’s the happiest he will ever be. He wants you there. He wants his mother at his bedside tonight. He wants to share his love. Share his peace.”

  “I’d be honored to share this night with you.”

  …

  I remember it well. There was sleep in your eyes. Time stopped moving. Your mother and I took turns watching you sleep throughout the night. One of us would sit at your bedside while the other would try to get some rest. There was one part of the night when you started talking and yelling or arguing to someone else in the room. Someone behind the walls, behind the streets, towns, and states, behind the stars. I couldn’t understand what you were saying. I took your hand in mine and pushed the play button on your pain medication. I wet your lips with a mint flavored sponge. Hospice came into the room and Gladys, too. She
barked, startling us, seeming really upset. Staring in the same direction you were.

  I yelled at her, “Gladys, go lay down!”

  She did something strange. She laid at the foot of the doorway to our bedroom, a place she had never rested before, and kept guard. Like she knew someone else was in the room. Maybe I’m crazy. You always said I was a little crazy at times but there was this amazing mystical way of the room. The energy shifted and changed. Goosebumps and hairs standing on end. Someone was there communicating with you and you seemed upset with him.

  Hospice put a hand on my shaking shoulder and said, “It’s time. Time to hold him. Time to tell him it’s okay to go.” Your mother and I each held your hand. I rubbed your head because I knew you liked that. I wanted you to know I was close.

  “I’m okay, babe. I’ll be okay. I love you. I love you so much. I love you. It’s okay… You can go now. I love you.” Each word destroyed me.

  Your mother continued my sentiments. “I’ll continue loving you. Thank you for the blessing of being your mother. I am so proud of you. I love you…”

  I was numb. Shocked. Stunned. I remember holding your hand and how it grew instantly lifeless. Your soft knuckles under my thumb, the movement of your skin with the brush of my finger, smooth, then wrinkled. The rattling, percolating sounds with each breath. Dreaming and smiling. The smell of baby powder and sweat and mint. Your breath shallow and deep, soft and slow. You opened your eyes to stare off in a corner to cough, to sigh. I rubbed your chest for your comfort, or my own. Your eyes never focused on me.

  I said, “Squeeze my hand one last time, babe. Remind me again that you love…”

  You clutched our fingers as tight as you could, feeling weak and soft.

  Then took your last breath.

  …

  I wanted to climb on top of you and let the breath of your lungs push me up and down. I wanted to rest my face on your chest and check for signs of life.

  “I love your skinny arm.” I kissed it. “I love your soft cheeks.” I kissed them. “I love your nose.” Kissed it. “I love your earlobes. Did I ever tell you, you have the world’s softest earlobes? I love your earlobes. I love you.” I kissed them. “I love you more,” I said, but you were already gone.

  I held you there. Your eyes got black and your breath stopped and your body got tight. There are things about death that no one tells you. Things that are gross and descriptive and smell weird. It took me a while to disconnect. I waited for it to sink in, to feel you gone. I wanted a brochure. I wanted to read about what I was supposed to be feeling, or doing. You were lying in front of me — I could touch you, feel you, but you were no longer you. Just a body ridden with cancer.

  I didn’t move for hours, or maybe it was only minutes. Time does strange things when you love a person with cancer.

  Hospice came in, starting singing a hymn and doing what hospice does, the angels of death, loving the soul and honoring the beauty of death. She undressed you slowly, bathed you one last time, leaving the cross on your forehead. Singing throughout her movements. You were naked. Peaceful. Transcending the physical world as she closed your eyes and crossed your hands over your chest. I know I wanted to cry but I couldn’t. I didn’t. I only watched you lie there.

  My breathing became shallow. The two sides of my brain stopped talking to each other. I’m not sure I even had a brain at this point. My responses were distant and glossed-over, as in a movie where everything around the actor is motion but their body is still. A freeze frame. I felt disconnected and unsafe. I had this strong urge to get drunk or self-medicate. Waves of overwhelming numbness paralyzed my ability to cope or even stand up. I was caught in the moment, taking a picture of a worrisome scene.

  Your mother turned on classical music. I sat and watched your body as a solo violin started the concerto. Waiting for you to take another breath, to tell your mother to turn the music down. A fly landed on your eyelashes, making his way to your eye. I waved my hands across your face to startle him. “Shoo fly.” This is what I probably said, or maybe I didn’t say anything at all. The increased volume and richer sound of the music had me standing over your body. Not wanting to touch you, but protecting you from a housefly. Everything slowed down. The image of you blurred and the voices in the distance faded. All I heard was the buzzing. Buzzing mixed with the orchestral melody.

  The fly landed on my chest. I glanced down, not even realizing until then that I was still wearing my wedding dress.

  chapter fifty-one

  a classical station

  Two men from the morgue came. They wore navy blue suits. They entered the house with a stretcher and a green body bag. Gladys growled, trying to bite the metal wheels along the hardwood. She knew this machinery was here to take you and she did not approve. I had to carry her outside as the men came to do what they were paid to do; pick up and remove a body in a bag. A body. You were no longer a name or a personality or even a sex. You were a body.

  “Miss, you’ll need to remove any valuables from the body first.”

  I was confused — you weren’t wearing anything. You were naked.

  “You need to remove his wedding ring,” your mother said.

  You still had a fist. I worked the band off your finger, and started crying as they lifted your body. Knowing this would be the last time I would see you.

  …

  I called my father. He said he would be on the next flight, and he was.

  I called my mother. She cried, saying the word sorry over and over.

  …

  I didn’t know who to call next, or what to do, or the protocol. I didn’t know where to begin. I called the sweetest voice I knew; I called Julie. I asked her if she could call Jay first. He would’ve been the first person I called if I had the strength.

  “I’ll call as soon as we hang up.”

  “Thank you, Jules.”

  “Is it okay if I come later tonight to check in…”

  “Yes. I’d like that.”

  “Chas, I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too.” I could hear her whimper as we said goodbye.

  I called Kaethy at the office next and left a message.

  …

  All of a sudden the house was active. I didn’t realize just how many people and medical supplies were in each room. I was thankful your stepfather was there; he did all the planning and paperwork and logistics. I just said yes or no to decisions, signed things, wrote checks. He made funeral plans and meal plans and flight plans and crematory plans. He did everything. Your mother and I just sat on the couch staring at an empty television, trying to comprehend the events around us.

  …

  Babe, can we talk? I need to tell you something. I need you to know that I am sorry. I’m sorry I pushed you to see your friends, pushed you too hard during the ceremony. Why did I agree to stopping the pain medication? I knew you were exhausted after the wedding. I should have cancelled the reception and planned it for another day. I think it was too much. I pushed you too hard. I shouldn’t have. I regret being selfish. Maybe you would’ve stayed with me for a few more days, if only I hadn’t pushed you so hard. It’s my fault, and baby, I’m sorry. I thought we had weeks left. I didn’t know what to do.

  …

  “Zach?”

  “Hiii…”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Fuck. I know, I talked to Julie.”

  “He’s gone Zach and…”

  “I’m here.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’m here if you need anything.” Pause. “Chas?”

  “I don’t know what to do…”

  “You keep loving him, that’s what you do.”

  “But what if I forget…”

  “You won’t, because he wouldn’t let you.”

  …

  I didn’t know what to do. I know I was loved but, for some reason I was caught up in how fast your disease came and how short our time was. I was caught up and angry at your prognosis, and how in
effective your treatments were. I was so caught up in the idea that I pushed you too hard, that I forgot — I forgot you loved me.

  I know. It’s foolish. I wished you were there so I could tell you all the things I forgot to say or kiss the parts of your body I missed, like the backs of your knees. Why didn’t I kiss them? I wish you were here now. I’d kiss the shit out of your knees.

  …

  I grabbed the book you made me for Christmas, the book of all the e-mails we sent. I turned to July 27th, exactly a year ago.

  Remind me I am loved. Tell me what to do.

  chapter fifty-two

  i couldn’t attach the song

  i wanted to send with this

  “We believe that Anthony is at peace. We saw that in his last days he achieved his solitude, even in the presence of weakness, discomfort, and impending death. We remember joyful smiles, tender words, and deep affection to Chas and those around him, even at the very end. The cancer defeated his body, but nothing defeated his spirit.”

  Laura, our Reverend, continued the service as I looked around at all the faces. Some I knew, some I didn’t. Some wept, others stared blankly ahead. I wander back and forth from face to face, not making eye contact. I felt the sadness roll into crashing doubts of everything in my life. I had no ability to make meaning in the suits and blazers and high heels. I want it to be over. Get out of this fitted black dress and back into my pajamas.

  How could you leave me here, babe, listening to your brother reading a eulogy, actually telling the church that you “had skills with women.”

  “He had mastered and understood women almost a decade ahead of his time.”

  I was laughing, but acting as if I were in tears. I looked around the church. I saw Jay, a familiar face; he too was laughing but I thought it might be a cover-up for his tears. This gave me the giggles. Do wives giggle at their husband’s funeral? My dad sat to my left. Crying. I’d never seen my dad cry before. Funny to think that you were the one making him cry, babe. He was so quiet. His tears go almost unnoticed. He was gazing at the photo of you at the head of the church.