Life and Other Near-Death Experiences

by Camille Pagán

  “Who, then?”

  The waitress came back with our food. I thanked her without looking away from Tom.

  “I had a few crushes here and there. But that’s not what this is about. I just . . . couldn’t keep lying to you. You know?”

  I responded with silence.

  “I’m sorry, Libby,” he said. “I tried to tell you, but . . .”

  I took a sip of my coffee, scorching my tongue on the too-hot liquid. I swallowed anyway. “Oh yeah? And when did you try to tell me, Tom?”

  This time he didn’t hesitate. “After you brought up adoption, and I said I didn’t want to do it. I told you I had something else I wanted to talk to you about. And you kept saying you couldn’t handle one more thing. That if I wasn’t going to give you good news, you didn’t want to hear it.”

  I gasped.

  He looked at me sadly. “You honestly don’t remember.”

  I told him I didn’t remember it like that. But as I stood there digging small holes into my palm with my nails, it came back to me. He had tried to sit me down. He said there were other things we needed to sort through before trying—again—to have a child. I had become angry—belligerent even, because I thought he was trying to divert my attention from the real issue. When, really, I’d been the one doing the diverting.

  I took another sip of coffee, then asked Tom if there were other times when he’d tried to tell me.

  He coughed awkwardly. “I pried a little. Remember in college, I told you my friend Luke was bisexual? You told me you could never be with someone who liked men, even a little.”

  My face grew hot. While I didn’t remember Luke, I could imagine myself saying something like that.

  “I told myself I would work harder to be the man you wanted me to be,” Tom said. “I read all those psychology books, and I looked for information online about, um, staying straight, and I tried to focus on studying and getting a good job. I’ve always been crazy about you, Libby, and I wanted to make you happy. You’re the most fun, wonderful person I’ve ever met. It just . . .”

  “Isn’t enough,” I said.

  Tom had known me most of my life; it was little surprise he understood what I was not saying as well. “It’s not your fault, Libby. It wasn’t up to you to give me permission to tell you. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I was lazy, too. Life was so good for us. It was so easy being half of the couple that looked like they had it all together.”

  “We had that in common,” I admitted. In many ways, our so-called ideal marriage had been the foundation of my adult life. I would never admit this to my father, but after my mother died, our three-person family never felt whole again. What I’d seen in Tom was not just a person whom I was deeply attracted to, but also a steady man with whom I could build a new family. Even after our two-person team did not expand as I’d hoped it would, we were nonetheless a unit: Libby-and-Tom, happily married, content in our shared existence. And I had been so intent on maintaining that foundation that I was unwilling to see the cracks forming beneath my very feet.

  “My therapist says that part of my need to have things seem perfect stems from having a childhood where everything was pretty much the exact opposite,” said Tom.

  I bit into my bacon, considering Tom’s father’s drunken tantrums and flying fists; his mother’s disheveled appearance and nonexistent housecleaning skills, which were her own silent form of retaliation.

  “I understand now why you—” I knew he was about to say “stabbed me,” but he stopped short. “Why you were so upset, and why you left Chicago. Though I’m sure it’s little comfort to you, I hate myself.”

  I sighed and met his eyes, which were full of pain. Tom’s battle to forgive himself—to learn to love himself again, if he ever had at all—was going to be far more difficult than any struggle I would endure as a result of our separation. I had my own issues to work through. But as far as our relationship was concerned, I was already rolling downhill, while Tom was at the bottom, trying to figure out how to begin his climb.

  “Please don’t hate yourself,” I said. “I don’t hate you.” It was hard to, with him sitting in front of me, reminding me that he was a real live human being whom I’d loved for so long it was hard to remember a time when that had not been the case. I wanted to tell him that we might be friends again one day. But I had a very strong feeling we wouldn’t be seeing much of each other in the future. So I simply said, “Just give yourself time, and some grace, okay? It’ll work out.”

  He dabbed at his eyes with a stiff paper napkin. Then he exhaled. “I feel like you just gave me a gift.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  His plate was untouched, his teacup still full. “Are you going to be okay, Tom?” I asked.

  “Shouldn’t I be asking that about you?” he said, and for a moment, I wondered if he suspected the truth about me. But then he said, “What about you, Libby? The apartment’s gone now, and you’re not working for Jackie anymore. What will you do next?”

  “I’m going to start a foundation for children who’ve lost a parent to cancer,” I said. My lie to Ty and Shea aside, I had not truly considered this until it came tumbling out of my trap, but the moment I heard myself say it, I knew there was no going back. However long I still had to live would have to be long enough to get the charity started.

  Tom smiled. “That’s wonderful. That’s exactly what your mother would have wanted for you.”

  “Yeah. It is,” I said quietly. Then I stood. “Would you mind getting the bill? It’s time for me to go.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Libby?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like it if we could stay in touch.”

  I smiled wistfully, even as my eyes filled with tears. “I wish we could, but to tell you the truth, I’m not so sure I can handle that.”

  Tom was right in front of me, so close I could touch him. But it now seemed we were on opposite sides of a rapidly expanding pond. It would not be long before that pond was a lake, and the lake, an ocean, and we would never again see each other from our respective shores. I would miss him.

  He nodded. “I understand. Good-bye, Libby. I love you.”

  I looked at him, one last time. “Good-bye, Tom.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The wind rattled the windows and howled through the cracks in the back door. I had an hour or two to kill before I was required to legally vacate the apartment, but even with a winter storm brewing, there was no point hanging around a place that was no longer my home. Besides, there was something I needed to do. I packed my suitcase, made sure the counters and floors weren’t too filthy, and dropped my keys on the counter. Then I walked to Damen, where I hailed a cab.

  As the driver began speeding east, I pulled my phone out of my bag and typed in a number.

  “Can you hear me?” I said into the phone.

  “Yes,” said Shiloh.

  “Good. Thank you for doing this.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. Thank you.”

  “Let’s not dog pile the gratitude, okay?”

  “Aye, aye, captain. You nervous?”

  I wiped the foggy window with the edge of my palm. Through the clear spot in the glass, cars whizzed past, their drivers seemingly unfazed by the fast-falling snow. “I feel not unlike my plane is about to nosedive into the ocean.”

  Shiloh laughed. “Deep breaths, Libby. Deep breaths. You can do this.”

  I breathed in deeply, which kind of hurt. Then out. And in again.

  “Good,” he said, like he was coaching me through Lamaze. “You’re doing great. Remember, get it over with so you can move forward.”

  “Forward,” I said.

  “Forward,” he repeated. “Now, did I tell you about my first day back to work?”

  Shiloh jabbered on for the next ten minutes, until the cab pulled up to a covered serv
ice drive. “Well, I’m here,” I told him.

  “Sure you don’t want me to stay on the phone a little longer?”

  “No, but I promise I’ll call you if I freak out. And I’ll let you know as soon as I’m done, okay?”

  “Cutie, I’m proud of you. I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I walked through the double doors, took yet another deep breath, and marched up to the reception window. “I’m here to see Dr. Sanders,” I announced.

  The receptionist looked confused. “He’s in clinic on the other side of the building.”

  “Do you expect him back at some point?”

  “Yes, though I have no idea when. Do you have an appointment with him?”

  “No, but I can wait.” I leaned through the window toward her. “I’m Libby Miller. The patient who wasn’t going to get treatment. I missed my appointment with Dr. Sanders last week.”

  Her mouth morphed into a soft O. “I see. Let me page him. Please have a seat.”

  A long, stale hour passed. People came in and out of the waiting room, presumably to see other doctors in Dr. Sanders’s practice. I tried not to look at them too closely, knowing I would inevitably attempt to tea-leaf my own health based on their appearances, even though it was statistically improbable that a single one of them had the same type of cancer I did, if they even had cancer at all. I struggled to stay awake as another hour went by. But I was determined to wait it out, mostly because there was no guarantee I’d be able to convince myself to return.

  I was nodding off when I felt someone sit beside me on the sofa where I’d been stationed. I looked over sleepily, and there was Dr. Sanders, dressed in pale blue scrubs. I sat up quickly and he smiled, then clasped my hands in his own. I resisted the urge to yank them back.

  “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you here,” he said, leaning in so close that I could see the broken capillaries swimming up and down the side of his nose.

  “Try me,” I said.

  He laughed. “Will you come with me?”

  I agreed, though my bravado had been replaced by the sensation that I had showed up to my own surprise party after it was over. When we reached his office, he motioned for me to sit in the same chair where he’d barely managed to deliver bad news the first time around. This time he didn’t go behind his desk. Instead he pulled another armchair across from me, just below a section of wall decorated with scripted diplomas, and sat down. Crossing one long leg over another, he regarded me for a moment. “Well, Libby, you’re the first patient who has ever disappeared on me, but my colleagues say it’s not unheard-of.”

  I stared at him.

  “No one wants to hear they have cancer. There is absolutely no way to prepare for it. And in your case . . .” He shifted. “Let me put it this way. I lost my father to lung cancer when I was eighteen, after watching him fight with it for nearly five years. Those were years he should have been going to baseball games with me, helping me choose a college. But he was either in the hospital or wasting away in his recliner, smoking and watching TV and waiting to die. I remember you saying that you lost your own mother to cancer. I know the trauma of watching a parent succumb to a terrible disease. I assume that is why you didn’t want to continue your medical care.”

  “Sort of,” I said. “And I’m sorry. About your father, I mean.”

  He folded his hands together. “Thank you. I’m sorry for your loss as well. It doesn’t have to be like that for you, though. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Not really,” I confessed.

  “We’ve come a long way since my father was in treatment, and since your mother was, too. I’m not promising you that you can be cured, but you can fight this. And you should. Can you agree to take it one day at a time? We need to find out whether the cancer has spread, and if so, how far. Then we can tailor a treatment plan to your needs. As you know, this form of cancer is rare, but as I mentioned before, I’ve been researching your options, and you may be eligible for a clinical trial. I’d love for us to begin this process right away so you have the best possible chance of getting better.”

  “So . . . here’s the thing,” I said. “I’m not planning to stay in Chicago. In fact, as of today, I no longer even have a home.”

  “Is this a financial issue? Our social work department can help you navigate insurance and assist you with housing issues.”

  “No, no, it’s not like that. It’s just that . . . I’m kind of going through a divorce, and Chicago is the last place I want to be.”

  “How terrible for you.” He sounded sincere, and my throat caught.

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course. Do you have plans to go to a specific city?”

  “My brother and his family are in Manhattan. It’s not exactly my favorite place, but . . .”

  He nodded. “I’d be concerned if you said you were heading to rural Kansas, but New York is a good place to seek treatment. Our cancer care center has a close relationship with Sloan Kettering. You’d be in good hands if you chose to go there, and I could help you make the transition.”

  “What am I up against, exactly? The last time I was here,” I said, gesturing around his office, “you said six months.”

  Dr. Sanders was staring at the space just above my head, which did not feel like a good sign. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “But it’s not untrue,” I said, heat rising in my chest. “Don’t sugarcoat it. I was basically ready to die a while ago, so nothing you say now is going to shock me.”

  “As I said, this cancer is so rare . . .”

  I resisted the urge to pull a move from the Paul Miller playbook and start opening and closing my hand like a puppet. Sensing my exasperation, he looked me in the eye and said, “What I am trying to say is that until you go through more thorough testing, I cannot give you a real answer. That’s exactly why I never should have said that in the first place. I made a mistake, and for that, I am truly sorry.” He put his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “What I can tell you, Libby, is that you’re going to have to be strong. And I know you have it in you.”

  I stood up and adjusted the shoulder strap on my bag. “I am well aware that I’m strong enough.”

  “Please sit down,” Dr. Sanders said.

  I looked at him, then at the door. Then I sat back down on the edge of the chair. “I know I can be strong,” I said, more quietly this time. “It’s just that I don’t want to.” I had been strong before—stronger than I would ever need to be now, because truth be told, my mother’s life meant far more to me than my own. And it had not changed a damn thing.

  “You have a choice—”

  I cut him off. “If you tell me to choose life, I will murder you in your sleep.”

  He held his hands up. “I was going to say something along those lines, but I’ll refrain.”

  “Good choice.”

  We sat in silence: Dr. Sanders, staring in my direction; me, staring out the window at the frozen white waves lining the lakeshore.

  “Okay,” I said after a few minutes.

  “Okay?” Dr. Sanders said with surprise. It’s true that he had no reason to believe me, considering the last time I said that very thing, I followed up with a no-show.

  “Yes. If you can help me get into a good hospital in New York right away, then I’m ready to do this.”

  He stood up. And he walked over to me and held his hand out. “I’d be happy to, Libby. Thank you.”

  I reached out and let him help me stand. “Thank you, Dr. Sanders,” I said. His bedside manner was not going to win him any awards, but his persistence may have bought me a little extra time.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  After leaving Dr. Sanders’s office, I got into another cab, this one heading to the airport. As I stared out the window, I didn’t think about treatment, or Tom, or anything concr
ete, really. I just kept seeing my father’s face in my mind. And the longer he lingered there, the more ashamed I became. Mental break or no mental break, I should have told him weeks ago, before my silence took shape as a lie. And so, in a not-so-quiet corner of O’Hare, I finally called him.

  Naturally, my father assumed my mewling (which began before he even answered the line) was on account of Tom. And then I had to correct him with three words he had undoubtedly prayed he would never have to hear again:

  I have cancer.

  Let’s be honest: it was awful, and that was my fault. My father cried, and I cried some more. When we got through the worst of it, he asked questions I could not answer, and I had to explain why I couldn’t answer them, which made me feel not unlike someone who had run over a basket of puppies.

  “What can I do to help you through this, Libby Lou?” he asked, and even though I’d just calmed down, a strangled sound escaped my mouth. I thought of my father wiping my mother’s brow with a cool washcloth as she lay lifelessly in bed. He had already been through enough, which is what I told him.

  “Nonsense,” he said. “It’s not your job to shield me. Being your father means seeing you through this and anything else you need help with. That is the single most important thing to me in this world. Let me at least do that for you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, for what was probably the thirteenth time.

  “The only thing you should be sorry about is apologizing again.”

  “So I probably shouldn’t apologize for that.”

  “Don’t even think about it.” He laughed. Then I heard him sigh deeply. “So this is why you took off to Puerto Rico.”

  “Yeah.”

  I could almost see him nodding. “That does make some sense.”

  I sniffed. “Try explaining that to Paul.”

  “Well, your brother’s not wrong for wanting you to get help immediately.”

  “I know.”

  “So, kiddo, tell me something good. How was the trip?”

  “It was wonderful,” I said without hesitation. I told him about the beach house, and Milagros, and even a little about Shiloh, minus the heady affair and brush with death parts.