The First Last Kiss

by Ali Harris

  ‘Wh-hwat are you saying, Ry?’ I whisper.

  ‘I’m sure they’ve got it all, the cancer was just in that mole, but I’ve got an appointment today to get the results of the scan and see about the lymph glands. I’m not scared or anything.’ He lifts up his shoulders and then they slump again as if he hasn’t got the energy to pretend.

  Cancer.

  I want to speak but I can’t. I can’t speak because I can’t breathe. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the word from my head.

  One word.

  Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.

  I put my hands over my ears to drown out the word. It is roaring its name like it’s the Gruffalo in our nephew Beau’s favourite book.

  I gaze at him pleadingly, and then disbelievingly, and then defiantly.

  ‘No,’ I say quietly, then louder. ‘I don’t believe it. NO!’ I grasp his hands again, entwine my fingers in his, and I close my eyes and I lift them to my lips and kiss them all over, kissing each finger, each knuckle, every last inch. I open my eyes and rest my cheek against our cold hands. Ryan kisses my head.

  ‘Babe,’ he says, ‘it’s going to be alright. I promise you, I’m going to be alright.’

  And I nod to show I believe him. I’m a Cooper now which means I am an optimist. We are optimists. The mouse can defeat the Gruffalo.

  The First Last Kiss

  Why did no one warn me that every kiss is a countdown to goodbye? It’s only now that I’m treating them like they’re the most precious things on earth that I realize that each one is like a grain of sand slipping through my fingers and I can’t hold on to them no matter how hard I try. How do I stop the sands of time?

  How can I make a kiss last for a lifetime?

  PLAY> 26/02/07

  Half an hour later we’re standing outside the private hospital in silence, clutchingπ the strong takeaway tea and flapjacks that Ryan stopped off to buy before we came here. We’re early and waiting till the last possible minute to go in for the appointment where we’ll be given the results of his CT scan. Neither of us wants to sit in the waiting room so we informed the receptionist we’re here and then came back outside, into the fresh air.

  I can’t speak yet. The words ‘skin cancer’ and ‘malignant melanoma’ and ‘Stage 3’ are pounding my brain like feet relentlessly running on a treadmill. I’m clinging on to Ryan with my spare hand like my life depends on it.

  Between the train-station car park and here, we have talked about it all, with me storing the information he gives me like a squirrel hoarding nuts for winter. The more I know the less my imagination can work overtime.

  I’m struggling with the knowledge that Ryan and his parents have known about this for weeks. I’m his wife, I should have been told. Instead, I was in New York, selfishly living out my dreams whilst my husband was living a nightmare. I close my eyes and try to rewind to the meeting where Christie asked if I wanted to go to Viva’s New York office for a month.

  No, I want to shout, not for the first time today.

  NO.

  I take a sip of tea and try to eat the flapjack that Ryan bought me. But it gets stuck in my throat. I have no saliva, no moisture left in my body; I’m sure I have cried it all out. Which is lucky, because I do not intend to do any more crying. I am going to be positive. I throw the flapjack in the bin we are standing next to.

  ‘Hey! That’s a waste,’ Ryan says. ‘I’d have eaten it.’ Always thinking about his stomach.

  ‘I don’t want a fat husband,’ I say shrilly, in a voice that doesn’t sound like my own.

  ‘Had you noticed the mole had changed before?’ I then ask quietly.

  He nods. ‘A year or so ago, I think. I honestly don’t know. I didn’t think anything was wrong, it just looked a bit . . . misshapen, bigger maybe, but I didn’t think anything of it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I demand. ‘I’d have told you to get it checked.’

  The words come out as a squeak, a whine, a self-obsessed whine. Ryan just laughs (how can he laugh? How can we ever laugh again?). He puts his tea down, ruffles my hair affectionately, and winds his arms around me.

  ‘I just didn’t think there was anything to it,’ he says gently. ‘And then when I thought it might have grown, we were always so busy with work and going here and there, and I just didn’t have time to get it checked.’ His fist tightens into a ball and he presses it against his forehead and closes his eyes. Then he opens them and smiles at me. ‘It’s fine though. It’ll all be fine! The docs removed it after the CT scan.’

  ‘But why didn’t you tell me when your mum noticed it?’

  ‘Because I didn’t want to worry you over nothing, Moll, you were in New York and I had the . . . mal-ignant mel-an-oma removed . . . ’ He pauses. The words fall clumsily out of his mouth, ‘ . . . almost immediately. Within a week! And yes, my blood test results show my red-blood count is up, but I feel fine! Fit as ever!’

  He doesn’t look at me when he says this, and I know that this isn’t true. He hasn’t been feeling himself for months. He’s been tired and listless, exhausted just walking up the stairs to our flat, but he thought it was just work taking its toll. Or his age. He is nearly thirty . . .

  Only nearly thirty.

  This shouldn’t be happening. Not to him! He’s a PE teacher! He juices every day! He’s run marathons! He’s scaled cliffs! Dived out of planes!

  He’s used a sunbed for years.

  Her voice is quiet, discreet, reverential, but completely unwelcome as ever.

  Get out Get out Get out! I hate your cynical, negative thoughts that are as cancerous as the cancer itself.

  I cling on to his hand and he looks up and smiles brightly. ‘I’m sure the CT scan result today will show they’ve got it all.’

  ‘That’s why I didn’t tell you,’ he continues, ‘because it could have been nothing . . . it could still be nothing.’

  ‘Stage three cancer isn’t nothing,’ I reply. The word ‘cancer’ is hostile in my mouth.

  ‘It will be when I’ve finished with it.’ Ryan mimes drop-kicking a ball into the far distance, puts his hand up to his ear as if waiting for the sound of it landing, then brushes his hands together and cups my face. ‘Look at me, I’m as fit as you like! There is no way some stupid little mole has had any other effect on this finely tuned machine!’ He jumps back, waves his hand at his body, flexes his muscles and poses, body-builder style. Then he grins and jogs on the spot. ‘You’re going to have to put up with being married to me for many years to come, Moll, so don’t you start thinking there’s any other way out . . . ’

  ‘Don’t joke about it, Ryan, please, I can’t . . . ’

  I’m crying and I hate myself for doing this but I’m not ready to joke. I won’t be until I hear the doctors tell us that he has beaten this.

  No, that we have beaten it.

  ‘Hey,’ he swipes away my tears with his thumb. ‘Molly, stop.’ He grips my wrists gently and makes me look at him. ‘Hey, listen to me. I know that these results are going to show that everything is alright. At worst, a couple of bouts of chemo, some radiotherapy maybe to make sure, and I’ll be right as rain!’

  I look at my husband, so positive and upbeat, so strong and sweet, protecting me for as long as possible because he didn’t want to worry me. I don’t know much about cancer and the details I do know come from reading the real-life features in our magazine, but I know stage four is bad, so stage three must mean there’s a chance? Maybe if it was isolated to that mole, it can be beaten? In fact, now I come to think of it, I’m sure we once featured a girl who had skin cancer, had the mole removed, had chemo, and had been clear of it for five years. Was it stage three? Probably! So that just goes to show it could definitely be curable! Almost certainly in fact! Cancer isn’t a death sentence any more. And there’s so much they can do. Really, we shouldn’t be at all worried. I’ll look into alternative medicines as well as whatever treatment the doctors decide to do. I’ll write a list. I’ve heard of cases w
here people have beaten cancer purely with diet alone. Obviously I’ll need to learn to cook first. But I could learn reflexology. Do a course in it or something? Or go to Holland & Barrett and get lots of essential oils. I’ll get some books on it from Amazon as soon as we get home. Maybe I’ll be the one to cure his cancer, not the doctors. He won’t even need treatment, probably. I’m all he needs now. And maybe one other person . . .

  ‘Good,’ I smile as I take his hand. ‘Because we haven’t got time for cancer if we’re going to start trying for a baby . . . ’

  His face breaks out into the biggest smile I have ever seen. His skin rumples around his eyes with lines stretching out towards his temples like arrows shooting from a bow.

  He grabs my hands and pulls me into a hug. ‘You’re ready, you’re really, honestly ready?’ he whispers into my ear. ‘You’re not just saying it because of the . . . cancer?’

  I pull back and stare at him intently. I need him to know this isn’t a knee-jerk reaction.

  ‘Ry, I’ve been trying to tell you this since I got back from New York. Being out there made me realize that I’m ready for the next stage of our life. I’m more than ready! More than anything I want to be a mum.’

  He grins then, and I feel a spark of hope. Someday we will look back and realize it was a narrow escape, a second chance, no, a third chance. We’ve overcome obstacles before, we’ll do it again. ‘So let’s go in now and let them tell us the good news, OK?’ Ryan doesn’t answer. He just nods and swallows so his Adam’s apple bobs up and down in his throat like a buoy. I hold out my hand to him and I smile, bigger and wider and brighter than I have ever smiled before. I can feel the positivity flooding my body like the sunlight that is now filtering through the clouds. It’s all going to be alright. I know it. I just know it.

  We’re sitting in silence outside the consultant’s office, steadfastly watching the clock. But the digits are barely moving. We’ve only been here five minutes but it feels like five hours. Time has slowed almost to a standstill. I’m hoping this is a sign that we have time. Lots of it. Because suddenly I feel like I’ve wasted so much.

  I look up and everything goes into slow motion as the door opens and there he is. I’m sure there is a head, attached to a body, in some clothes. Perhaps there is a white coat. I don’t notice because all I can see is his smile. A gentle, coaxing, encouraging smile.

  This is A Very Good Sign. I am certain of this. His floating mouth reminds me of the Cheshire Cat’s and I watch transfixed as it morphs into an ‘oooh’ as he speaks.

  ‘Mr Coo-ooooh-ooo-per,’ he yawns.

  Why has everything gone so weird? I feel like I have taken hallucinogenic drugs or something . . .

  ‘Molly?’ I look at Ryan but he is yawning too, his face taking on Edvard Munch-like qualities as he curves and twists and then . . . everything goes black.

  We are sitting in the consultant’s office and I’m sipping more strong, sweet tea as Ryan holds me. I fainted apparently. How embarrassing. A nurse is smiling kindly at me, the consultant is sitting behind his desk.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I mumble, to no one in particular.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the doctor replies. I’m relieved to see that there’s now a face attached to the mouth and a body attached to his head. ‘You chose the best place to faint. Plenty of people here to help!’ The nurse smiles in acknowledgement of his weak joke. The doctor – Dr George Harper, his badge says – isn’t smiling any more. His face is serious, kindly, considerate. Benign, I think. Then I mentally chastise myself. Why has that word appeared in my brain to torment me?

  ‘So Mr and Mrs Cooper,’ Dr Harper says. A giggle erupts out of my mouth and he glances at me like I might just hit the floor again.

  ‘She always laughs when she’s nervous,’ Ryan explains with a smile, and the doctor nods patiently.

  ‘It’s because it makes us sound so old! But we’re not!’ I blurt out. Ryan squeezes my hand. ‘We’re so young . . . ’ I whisper.

  It occurs to me that I would love to see Ryan with grey hair. Grey and old and lined and wrinkled, I want to see that desperately. I can feel my chest tightening, my breath shortening and the tears coming back. I blink furiously.

  Ryan squeezes my hand again, and I smile at him weakly.

  ‘So,’ the consultant says, ‘we have the results of your CT scan and . . . ’

  Pause.

  There’s no noise in the room, not a single breath, not a whisper from the trees outside, only the wall clock can be heard.

  ‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid.’

  Tick.

  I gasp as I take a breath.

  ‘What do you mean exactly?’ Ryan says. His voice is a whisper. He’s squeezing my hand.

  Tick .

  Clinging on for dear life.

  Tick .

  ‘This is not stage three as we suspected; the scan has shown it’s stage four. As well as the presence of melanoma in your lymph glands, the metastatic cancer has spread,’ the consultant says gravely. He folds his hands on his desk. I glance at the picture on his desk. A wife, two kids. Boy and girl. ‘And the melanoma cancer cells have formed a metastatic tumour that has caused an intravasation . . . ’ Furrowed brows all round. ‘By that I mean that the cancer has spread through the walls of your lung and liver . . . ’

  I think of Ryan panting after a short jog, of his swollen stomach that no amount of sit-ups could shift. He thought it was age. The dreaded 3-0. The beginning of middle-age spread. I’d joked it was ‘marriage spread’. We’d joked about it.

  We’d. Joked. About. It.

  Ryan is clutching me now, pulling me closer as we grasp for each other as the consultant continues to speak, the words and phrases coming out of his mouth that are another language to us. Then he nods at the nurse and she picks up the baton in the bad-news relay, talking in simpler terms that we can understand. We can try chemo, they can offer pain relief.

  Relief, not cure, I note. She’ll put us in touch with a local Macmillan nurse . . . treatment plan . . . surgery to remove the lymph glands, chemo if we want to go that route . . . to win time . . . ensure we have lots of support.

  ‘How much time?’ Ryan says, his voice sounding like an old LP that’s been put on the wrong speed.

  The nurse gently replies that there’s no estimate on time, he could have months ahead, a year. The doctor says that he can see that this is hard to take in. Then comes the apology.

  ‘I’m so sorry . . . ’

  And then the retreat.

  They’ll leave us alone for a few minutes. So we can take it in . . . but I’m not listening any more. I am looking only at my husband. I’m thinking only of my husband, my incredible, handsome, active, fit young husband.

  My dying husband.

  And then the door shuts and Ryan’s lips meet mine in a sequence of stumbling movements that reminds me of our first kiss; it literally transports me back to that moment in The Grand, when Ryan tried to find my lips so indelicately. Now we do the same, clutching as we gasp for breath between our tears, and we kiss as if we are drowning and it occurs to me that this is actually a world away from our first kiss.

  This kiss, right now, begins the countdown to our last. It is our first last kiss. And as that thought occurs to me, I kiss Ryan with every ounce of love for him I have ever had, a love that at times has been too big for me to cope with, a love beyond my years. And, now it seems, beyond his. As his body begins to shake and the tsunami of tears comes, I cradle his head to my lap and I stroke his golden hair, and I whisper that I’m going to make every kiss, every touch, every moment last a lifetime. I’ll savour every single kiss from now until the . . . not the end, until forever.

  3.27 p.m.

  Mum and Dad arrive just as the van’s leaving. I’m glad to have them here. They flank me closely as we watch it pull out of the driveway and down the road.

  ‘Are you OK, dear?’ Mum says, one hand on my shoulder, the other on my arm. ‘This must be so hard for you.’

/>   I nod. ‘It is, Mum, but I also know that van is just full of sentimental crutches that I don’t need any more because the memories, well, they’re all here, aren’t they?’ I tap my head. I look at them both and they smile and nod.

  I know I sound like I’m just saying it, but if there’s one thing that Ryan’s cancer has taught me it’s that it’s the memories that stay with us forever, not the stuff that’s attached to them. I used to think that taking photographs would make me see things better, freeze the moment, remember it forever. But I realize that the only way to do that is to live in the moment, not behind a lens. We don’t actually need pictures or endless videos or keepsakes or engagement rings to recall these special moments, because they’ll always be there. Even if they fade a little over time, one day the sun will shine in the sky on a particular morning in a particular way, or we’ll discover a long-lost item, a shell, perhaps, or a card will arrive in the post . . . and it’ll all come flooding back. And the memories will be good, and we’ll know that we are blessed to have them. And then we’ll feel lucky to have been given the chance to make more . . .

  ‘I’d better get started on the house,’ Mum says, throwing a look at Dad that says ‘Let’s give her a moment’. Dad nods and is about to follow her inside, when he turns around and puts his arms around me and kisses me on the head as if he is blessing me.

  ‘You just keep putting photos up here in the album, OK, Molly? I know you have so many more wonderful ones to come.’

  I nod. Wanting to say all the things I didn’t say to him for so long. Finally I settle for four words.

  ‘I love you, Dad,’ and he smiles and walks inside.

  I pull out my mobile, feeling a sudden urge to call him. I just pray that he answers.