Life and Other Near-Death Experiences

by Camille Pagán

  “You see the horses?” he asked.

  “Yes. And the phosphorescent bay. You were right—it was amazing. A once-in-a-lifetime experience.” I felt a pang of regret for not snapping more than a few pictures. “Dad, how long were you and Mom there?”

  He said it had been a week, maybe ten days; he couldn’t recall. “I do remember one thing well. Hang on a second. I’m going to e-mail you something.”

  I switched modes on my phone. After a moment, an e-mail from my father popped up in my in-box. I opened it, and centimeter-by-centimeter, a scanned photo of my mother appeared on the screen. She was standing on the beach in a yellow bathing suit, the swell of her belly outlined against the sea. Her hands were overflowing with shells and she was laughing.

  “I found it while I was cleaning out some boxes in the attic a few weeks ago. I meant to send it to you last week,” my father explained.

  “It’s incredible, Dad. Thank you. I didn’t realize you and Mom went to Vieques while she was pregnant with us.”

  “She was maybe four or five months along, though everyone thought she was about to give birth at any moment. She was so tiny, and there were two of you in there.”

  “Thank you,” I repeated. “I can’t tell you how much the picture means to me.”

  “I’m glad you like it. You remind me so much of your mama, kiddo.”

  A lump formed in my throat. I hadn’t heard anyone refer to her as “mama” in years. “It’s Paul who looks like her,” I said.

  “True, but who do you think you get your sunny outlook from? You’re just like her that way.”

  I shook my head, thinking of how similar Paul and I had been for the first decade of our lives. It was only after our mother got sick that he’d become so cynical, and I’d begun denying the existence of any and all bad things. “I wasn’t really like that until everything happened,” I said.

  “Not true, kiddo. Not true at all. That’s how you came out of the womb. Paul was colicky, but you? You just lay there cooing. We used to joke that you were singing to Paul to calm him down.”

  “So I didn’t . . .” I wasn’t sure how to say it. “I didn’t get all weird and chipper because of Mom’s cancer?”

  “Oh, gosh, no. Not at all. Do you not remember much of your childhood before that? I suppose that’s normal. That grief counselor I used to see once told me that many of your memories would be formed around that one awful year. But there was—” My father blew his nose into a tissue and continued. “There is so much more to our family. We had great times together. And you and your mom staying positive throughout the not-great times was one of the few things that kept me going. I just don’t think I could have handled it if she hadn’t believed, deep down, that everything was going to be okay.”

  “But she died,” I said softly.

  “Yes, she did. You know what they say: no one makes it out of life alive. But she was still right.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Libby, you and Paul are happy, functioning people who have lived, and loved, and made the world a little bit better by being in it. That was your mama’s exact definition of okay.”

  I could feel the sobs coming on. “Thanks, Dad. I needed to hear that.”

  “You’re so welcome, Libby Lou. I love you.”

  Afterward, I went to the bathroom and cried in a stall for a while, then splashed my face with cold water. I was turning from the sink when I almost ran into a girl—she couldn’t have been more than eight or nine—who was attempting to walk while reading a well-worn copy of Little House in the Big Woods. She looked up at me and scowled, but I smiled down at her anyway, because my mother had loved that book. I hadn’t adored it the way she did, but I never told her that, because I was happy just to sit with her and take turns reading aloud. In fact, there was little I now recalled about Little House, save the main character, Laura, and her family, and the occasional cameo from a bear or panther in their woods.

  But as I returned to my gate, I realized there was something I could remember. At the very end of the book, Laura tells herself, This is now, and feels happy because the now could not be forgotten as it was happening. “Isn’t that wonderful?” my mother said to me after she finished reading it. Her arm was around me, and she squeezed me tight. “This is now, Libby Lou. And it’s all ours.”

  It was a night like any other, except the flood of bad memories from the following years had not washed it away. And though it was no longer now, it was still ours.

  People were crowding around the boarding area, jostling one another to speak with the gate agent or get in line. I was less than eager to sandwich myself between them and take another flight. Especially this flight, which would herald an unknown and undoubtedly difficult period.

  Yet as I stood and began slowly wheeling my suitcase to the gate, I had a deep, restful feeling of relief—a feeling I had not had since long before the double dose of news that started it all. My conversation with my father had not been an epiphany so much as a reframing. Life is devastating, if only in its limited run; but it’s incredibly good, too. And in spite of my circumstances, I could not deny that I was ready for more.

  “New York LaGuardia, now boarding zone one,” said a voice over the loudspeaker.

  I took a deep breath and got on the plane.

  EPILOGUE

  Something Shiloh taught me is that to see the night sky clearly, you can’t overfocus; it’s the stars outside of your direct vision that come in brightest. So it goes with life’s triumphs and troubles. Though it would be several months after my departure that I could fully recognize this, my stay in Vieques gave me the distance to see my situation for what it was. And even with illness and separation, what it was, was incredibly good, simply by virtue of its existence.

  I wasn’t eligible for a clinical trial after all, but as my new oncologist, Dr. Kapur, explained, this was because though the cancer had spread in my abdomen, it had not metastasized to other areas, rendering my case blessedly straightforward. I began a chemo cocktail that could be taken at home: pills that had me in the bathroom for hours while my stomach tried to secede from my body; and a topical cream that caused my skin to blister, making my Puerto Rican sunburns seem like spa treatments. But because the medication was administered in cycles, with recovery breaks, there were calm weeks when I wasn’t weak or nauseous, and I could almost forget that longevity and I were on tenuous terms.

  Paul and Charlie had generously converted the garden floor of their brownstone into an apartment for me. Despite their hospitality, I found the city in winter to be overwhelming. Even a simple trip to the deli or post office required battling the elements, say nothing of the foot traffic. I preferred to stare out the high egress windows of my safe, warm nook, watching people stream up and down Eighty-Eighth Street at all hours of the day.

  Yet, just as I had settled into a routine in Vieques, I began to adapt to New York, and as the cold gave way to temperate air and budding leaves, my days took on a comfortable rhythm. When I didn’t have a doctor’s appointment, I would read the paper, then walk in Central Park for an hour before heading home for lunch and a nap. Afternoons were often spent with Toby and Max. The three of us would make cookies and read books, or if I was up for it, go on outings (which required the twins to help me navigate the streets and subways like the urban experts they already were). A few times a week I spoke with Shiloh, sometimes for a few minutes, other times for hours on end. On occasion we discussed the possibility of him visiting me in New York. Yet with my health status up in the air and with him happily flying again, I was hesitant to make concrete plans.

  I was lonely at times, but not alone. I would often be doing something benign—say, standing at the stove, watching the boys while I stirred a pot of chili or pushed chicken about in a pan—and find myself overcome with pure gratitude.

  And there was much to be grateful for. The tumor, which was
really a Pollock-esque splattering of cells beneath my navel, began to shrink. To celebrate, Paul—who had not said as much, but had clearly scaled back significantly at work since I’d moved in with him—took a day off and went to the zoo with me and the twins. It was chilly for late April, and as we walked back to the house, I tucked my head down to minimize the wind’s sting. As such, when I reached the brownstone, the first thing I saw were a pair of feet on the bottom stair. Actual feet! What kind of nutter wore sandals in such weather?

  “Cutie,” said a voice, and when I realized that the voice belonged to the man I loved, I squealed, then kissed him like a crazy person.

  “I know this was unexpected,” Shiloh said when I’d finished mauling him.

  “You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” I said. “Never leave me again.”

  “Technically, you left—” he began, but I kissed him again before he had a chance to finish.

  Five months later we were married on the beach in San Juan. It was a mild September evening, and the Caribbean was calm and blue. Milagros came in from Vieques for the ceremony, and our families flew in, as did Jess and O’Reilly. Tom was not invited, but he sent his blessing, and even better, a case of champagne.

  Shiloh wore a pale linen suit, a yellow shirt, and an enormous grin. I wore a wreath of orchids in my hair, which had thinned but not fallen out, and had somehow straightened, too, fulfilling one of my lifelong wishes. I decided against ivory—who were we kidding?—and opted for a flowing yellow dress that Jess helped me choose. She claimed the dress was the wardrobe challenge of the century because whatever we chose had to be flattering while still accommodating my bloated abdomen.

  Yes, two months after Shiloh moved into the garden apartment with me, one of the battery of tests I regularly took revealed a set of suspicious, rapidly proliferating masses. The good news was, they would only grow for a set period of time before expelling themselves. It turned out that I wasn’t infertile, after all, and Shiloh had gifted me with twin girls.

  Dr. Kapur and his team fretted over the pregnancy. The babies could potentially be harmed from lingering chemo in my system, and I would have to discontinue treatment until after I gave birth. Happily, the initial chemo had been successful enough that I showed no significant change in tumor activity during my pregnancy.

  Shiloh and I hoped to eventually return to Puerto Rico, but in the meantime, he found a good job at a small regional airport in New Jersey. His commute and shifts were long, and I was all but immobile by the second half of my pregnancy, but I used the downtime to establish the Charlotte C. Ross Foundation. Our first donor: one Lily Broderick-Oshira, whose mother had been gracious enough to mentor me during the first few months of the foundation’s existence.

  On an unseasonably warm day in early February, a little over a year after I left Vieques, I brought two new lives into the world: Isabel Milagros, who emerged with fair skin and a full head of light curls; and Charlotte Patrícia, who has Shiloh’s caramel skin, and is otherwise the spitting image of Paul as a baby. Both girls are healthy, preternaturally calm, and a source of joy that I can never adequately put into words.

  I am again undergoing chemo, and though I have not kicked cancer’s proverbial ass, and may be miles and a dream from remission, I believe in my heart that I will live long enough to help my daughters find their way in the world. And if I am wrong about that, well—tell it to someone else, because I don’t want to know.

  It’s often said that cancer forever changes you. Maybe so. I’d like to think that it didn’t change me so much as give me clarity about the woman I am, and my role in this mess of a world. After my diagnosis, I vowed to do something meaningful, and the foundation certainly fit the bill.

  Yet I’ve come to understand that the way I will truly honor my mother’s memory is not with a big act, but through my daily choices: to be compassionate with myself, even when my will is weak and my body fails me; to give myself freely to those I love, even when it means my heart may be broken; and to live fully and completely while I have the chance—just as my mother did.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A million thanks to my intrepid agent, Elisabeth Weed, for believing in me and championing this novel.

  Danielle Marshall and the team at Amazon, thank you for your enthusiasm and support; it has been a breath of fresh air working with you. Tiffany Yates Martin, this story owes so much to you. Thank you for your wise and witty editorial guidance.

  My endless gratitude to Shannon Callahan for reading many early versions of Life, and for cheering me on every step of the way. Likewise, Sara Reistad-Long, Pam Sullivan, Janette Sunadhar, and Darci Swisher, your support means the world to me.

  Thank you, Lizarribar, Masini, and Pagán families, for sharing your Puerto Rico with me.

  JP, Indira, and Xavier Pagán, you give me a reason to write.

  And to my sister Laurel Lambert: I love you the most—but don’t feel bad, because I couldn’t have written this novel without you.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Cancer has directly impacted so many of my loved ones, friends, and colleagues. Because of this, I did not take writing a novel about cancer lightly and deliberately chose to give my protagonist, Libby, a very rare form of the disease. Although I consulted medical literature and physicians about subcutaneous panniculitis-like T-cell lymphoma, Libby’s experience is still very much a fictionalized account, and should not be used for reference purposes.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © Joni Strickfaden 2015

  Camille Pagán’s work has appeared in dozens of publications and websites, including Forbes, Glamour, Men’s Health, Parade, O: The Oprah Magazine, Real Simple, WebMD, and Women’s Health. She lives in the Midwest with her husband and two children.