This Will All Be Over Soon

by Cecily Strong

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  For Owen and Leda—

  my two favorite string beans who remind me to listen for the birdsong and look for the daffodils.

  March 24, 2020

  I don’t know how to tell this story.

  I don’t quite know what the story is.

  Because I don’t know when it starts. Or how it ends.

  Maybe the story started with the awful day in January when I got the call I had imagined getting for almost two years but believed and hoped I’d never get.

  “Owen has been given hours. His tumor didn’t shrink enough where they could start the new treatment Monday. They will make sure he’s in no pain, and he’s surrounded by Ed and Laurel and Leda and his girlfriend, Stacia, and Sasha, his best friend since childhood. Soon he will go into a coma and then he will pass away.”

  I kept saying “No, no, no, no, no, no.”

  I don’t know how long I sat frozen on my bed making these guttural wailing sounds. At some point I picked up my phone. I was in California. I was supposed to fly to Philadelphia the next day for a wedding. Owen was supposed to beat brain cancer.

  That night, I took moments to glance at the clock on my phone, wondering, where in time and space was Owen? What part of his journey was he on at this particular moment? I suppose I have my own magical thinking that began in earnest this night, that Owen would somehow beat this, too. I didn’t know how. But if anyone could figure out how to beat time and space, it would be the smartest and most wonderful and bravest human I knew.

  My little cousin Owen.

  * * *

  MAYBE THE STORY is a different story, and it starts at a Christmas party this past December with my friend Kevin. I’m a bit down, but we are having fun. At the very end of the night, I’ve had too many and my new agent comes over. I don’t know what we even talk about, but he insists, “Just come meet the guy over there with the mustache.”

  The guy over there with the mustache is handsome. I almost say yes. But then I say no. I’m thirty-five. I’m very used to being single. The majority of my male friends are gay. The two men I’m with at the table are gay. I think it’s sad that everyone wants to set me up, like it’s sad to look at me or something. I’m doing great!

  Okay, but I do like to smooch, and it’s Christmas, and I feel cute in my outfit, so I talk to the man with the mustache. He’s very cute. I have social anxiety, and I’m drunk and tired, so I have no idea what we talk about. He comes home with me. The next morning I’m a little more shy. He is less shy.

  “Can I give you my number?” he asks.

  I hand him the pink-flamingo pen my psychiatrist gave me that week. I find an old receipt, and he writes “Jack” and his phone number on the back. Now I have to text him first in order for him to have my number. I text him right after he leaves. I like him. Our timing isn’t great. We both live in New York, but I’m about to go to California for a month. He’s going to Cuba for two weeks. They don’t have great internet.

  * * *

  MAYBE THE STORY starts March 2018. My dad has started a new thing I love, where he sends me a text almost immediately after each SNL show: a little summary that is, of course, always complimentary of his “girlie.” This Saturday he doesn’t text me. That’s odd, but maybe he’s just asleep.

  The next morning he texts and says to call him. His tone immediately scares me: “I have some bad news about Owen.”

  Of all people, this is not who I expect. Owen is twenty-eight years old and in great shape, and what could be wrong with Owen?

  “He was having migraines, and he took himself into the ER. He got an MRI, and they found a tumor.”

  We cried together on the phone. Brain cancer is a death sentence, right?

  I went to see my cousins, Owen and Leda, at my uncle Ed and aunt Laurel’s apartment. I had no idea what to expect. What’s it like after you find out you have brain cancer? I’m nervous on the way there. Owen’s had surgery to remove the tumor. Will he be bald? Will he look sick? I am holding back tears in the elevator.

  I get to the door and Owen opens it, his normal towering, skinny, string-bean frame greeting me, arms wide open for a hug.

  “Hey, cuz.”

  I immediately feel okay. He’s smiling. I hug Ed next, who is less confident than Owen. Then Laurel, who is always Aunt Laurel—determined and on some task or another. She seems busy. This is the first time I see it as an armor. She’s going to make sure that we have snacks on the table and that everybody has water. She keeps the most beautiful home and always has—it’s a magical skill to someone like me. My idea of cleaning a house is calling the junk removal people and shrugging like, “Have at it.” Whenever I see someone subscribes to Martha Stewart Living I immediately know they come from a different monkey than I do.

  Owen flops on a chair. Laurel is deaf in one ear, so he’s always been used to talking loudly. I’m not sure what to talk about, but Owen leads the way. Soon I’m laughing. I love this kid so much: “You know how everybody goes online and goes on WebMD and panics and convinces themselves they have brain cancer? Well I’m the one who actually had brain cancer.”

  His doctors are great, he says. They’ve got a plan. He’s got a plan. His only problem is boredom.

  I hug him goodbye. I think I needed it more than him. Owen has this quality of being the one who supports everyone around him, even while being the one who is undergoing vigorous treatments for glioblastoma.

  Uncle Ed walks me outside. He’s visibly upset and nervous.

  I say, “I think he’s going to be okay. I really do.”

  And I really did.

  * * *

  MAYBE THE STORY starts Sunday, March 8, International Women’s Day, when Jack comes with me to watch the US women’s national soccer team play against Spain in the SheBelieves Cup.

  He’s excited to be at this big arena in New Jersey, to watch women’s soccer with me. He gets choked up when he sees the number of little girls who get to have sports heroes, as it’s still rare even though they are the most badass team in the world. But I digress. Jack is loving the game. US wins. Duh. Jack says he thinks women’s sporting events might be his new thing. No loud, drunk guys.

  We go out to eat and wait for traffic to die down before getting a Lyft home. As the restaurant starts to fill up, I wonder if this is a bad idea. The coronavirus is coming, isn’t it? Although, I wonder, what is that really? I am more nervous than most people, so I shrug it off.

  That night, Jack does this thing he does where he grabs my hands when I’ve absentmindedly started picking at the skin behind my nail. It’s a thing I do. I pick at things in every way. It’s nerves, it’s anxiety. He notices.

  He says, “I want you to feel like you can hold my hand instead.”

  I don’t tell him, but it’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.

  We talk that night. Like, the talk I haven’t had in six years. Are we dating? I like you. Let’s be dating.

  At first I thought it was so difficult to meet someone right as I was losing someone I loved so much. I knew he’d have to be patient with me. He’d have to let me grieve. It would be easier not to even try during that process. But grieving for Owen was like nothing I’d ever experienced, and I promised Owen and myself to continue to let a
ll that love be there along with the sadness. So when Jack leaves that night, after the talk, I say, “I think you were a gift to me from Owen.” And I like thinking of it that way.

  Jack calls me that Friday morning and says, “I have a fever.” Jack’s got the coronavirus. What bad timing. So now you know how it could start.

  * * *

  NOW IT’S TIME I tell you (if you couldn’t already tell) I’m a bit lost. So here are some more parts of the story, in some order.

  Owen tells me in August about a great new doctor he has, Dr. Henry Friedman. He’s the head of neuro-oncology at Duke. He’s leading the way in using polio therapy for GBM. That’s the acronym for Owen’s brain cancer. I’m learning the language of cancer now. Owen says Dr. Henry is the first doctor to bring up the word cure. I love this doctor. Owen starts polio treatments. I have no idea what that means or what it means for his body. In fact, I will never know what Owen experiences because he will never let on about the extent of his struggles. I’m not the only one. Doctors looking at his final MRI will say later that because of the size and position of his tumor, they didn’t know how he was standing and laughing and talking as long as he was.

  * * *

  I’M IN THE middle of my two-week quarantine in my tiny apartment in New York. I’ve cried every day. I’m scared about Jack. I’m really scared. He has had a bad fever for a week. He didn’t answer his phone yesterday. I text a doctor friend, who suggests a police welfare check. I end up not calling because I find Jack’s roommate on Instagram and he responds to my message. He says Jack is just sleeping, but he’s watching him just in case. This is how I meet Jack’s roommate for the first time.

  I have had anxiety and depression since high school. I take Wellbutrin. I’ve gone to therapy for years. I take Xanax when needed. This is a really bad time for mental health. Today I decide the anxiety is worse. I’d rather be depressed. I get really low. I wake up Friday and I turn my phone on airplane mode and I start drinking. I think it’s going to fall apart with Jack now. I’m upset with him for not understanding why I constantly need to know he’s okay. I’m upset with myself for needing to constantly know he’s okay. I’m upset with friends talking about missing their fucking birthdays. What if Jack dies? What if I die? Owen just d—I can’t say it or write it. I’m so low and I’m so afraid. I’m afraid of the water coming out of my pipes. I’m afraid of outside. And I am so alone. I’ve never felt so alone. I ask Owen out loud to please help Jack. To help me. I immediately feel bad for asking. I just feel bad.

  The next morning Leda texts me that she’s upstate. She says she’s heard a lot of birdsong, so we are in good hands. Thank you, Leda. Thank you, Owen. Perfect timing.

  * * *

  MAYBE IT STARTS on January 18, at Owen’s memorial service, when I spoke about the weird little red-haired boy I first met as a kid who came back into my life as an adult and taught me about family and what it is to feel that kind of love. I talked about his love for birds. The boy who loved birds flew away.

  I send Jack the video of Owen’s beautiful service. He is still feeling sick, but his fever has finally broken after ten days or so. He tells me he went to high school with one of Owen’s friends, Nate. Nate from Antarctica!

  “Nate’s coming from Antarctica. Can you believe it?” Laurel said as she went through letters and emails and flowers in a much quieter apartment, days after Owen had gone. We ate dinner, and I tried to make them laugh a little. I think Owen would want that. I know he would want that.

  Jack’s roommate sends me a video after Jack’s chest X-ray and doctor visit. Jack is in a mask and gloves. He’s out of breath. He’s tired. He looks sick. He says the X-ray looks good. He coughs. Then, even though he’s out of breath and sick, he still says, “My doctor is such a great doctor.” I rewatch this video in my quarantine. It makes me laugh a little. It makes me cry. He’s really sick.

  Leda told a story at Owen’s service. She had asked one of Owen’s doctors if he was scared when she told him they couldn’t do anything more for him, that he would have hours to live. I had this thought, too. But I knew he wouldn’t be scared. The doctor said that while most patients panic and try to bargain in this moment, which makes me really sad to hear, Owen didn’t. Instead he thanked her for trying her best. And for all she’d done for him.

  * * *

  SO I DON’T know what this story is. The world is upside down. I’m holding devastation and love in equal measures. What is bad timing when the timeline seems irrelevant? What’s the ending? Would you even know?

  March 26, 2020

  Matt and Kevin are going to pick me up at six thirty. It’s five now and I’ve just dropped a bag full of tiny clamshells and shredded lettuce all over my kitchen floor. I don’t even have time to take a theatrical moment and laugh about it. I clean quickly. I’ve got to get everything out. I’m leaving this apartment and New York City for five weeks.

  I’m hoping I’ve thought of everything but I don’t quite trust my own head right now. I’ve packed as well as I can after what has felt like two weeks of a hurricane inside my brain. The only human face I’ve seen is my sweet dog walker, Carlos, who pokes his head in twice daily to get my eight-year-old rescue dog, Lucy, for walks. They say it’s safe to walk your dog as long as you maintain six feet. But I don’t risk it. Nothing feels safe out there.

  Actually, there is another human face I’ve seen. Earlier this month, Owen’s doctor from Duke, Henry Friedman, reached out—because his patients become family, and he had not met Cousin Cecily yet, but also to ask if I’d be open to maybe mentoring a young actress whose family he is very close to. I said of course, although Syd, this young actress, was already a Broadway star in her own right, so I wasn’t sure what I could do. I made tentative plans to have lunch with Syd and her mom, Keri. And then about a day later, New York shut down. Then Jack tested positive for COVID and I started my quarantine.

  So instead of meeting Syd and Keri for lunch, I wound up frantically speaking with Keri over the phone about holistic methods for treating respiratory illness, like liposomal vitamin C and manuka honey. She had a lot of experience with taking care of a close family member who had suffered a couple of bouts of pretty serious pneumonia. But I wasn’t able to buy the honey or vitamin C because other people clearly had gotten the same advice and there was none available online or from any store that might deliver in New York. Keri said she could spare some of hers. So she and our teenage Broadway star phenom Syd drove all the way from somewhere not close to give sick Jack in Brooklyn and maybe-sick me in Manhattan each a box of liposomal vitamin C. They also gave us each a roll of toilet paper, because it turned out nobody was able to get toilet paper. I watched Syd through my peephole, smiling even though she couldn’t see me, as she left my little COVID care package outside of my door with a cute note before running back down to her mom waiting in the car. We didn’t have much information yet by then, but I knew I wasn’t allowed to open the door.

  I ask my doorman if he will send the big cart up in the elevator to my floor. I never got rubber gloves so I’m wearing a black glove from a curling wand I bought recently and holding a scarf from the dog groomer. I awkwardly load up the cart with the weird things I’ve chosen to bring. A salad spinner. A nice salad bowl. My garlic press. A yoga mat. Vodka. You can’t get things on Amazon right now.

  I have trouble maneuvering the cart in the elevator but Lucy is already in there. My mind flashes quickly to that story about the dog leash getting caught when the door closes and the dog being hanged. I’m panicking again. Stop. No time. I’m almost in a splits position to make sure the door stays open as I get this damn cart in. I’M GETTING OUT.

  The street feels scary when I’m out there. I hope they pull up soon. The virus is out here. I glance at my doorman, Mervin, and I feel guilty that he has to stay. I hope he stays safe. I hope he knows he and Carlos are superheroes.

  The boys pull up and we try to figure out how to get everything in the car as quickly as possible. Finally I
whip off my coat and get Lucy on it. Seat belts on and we hit the empty streets. It takes a couple minutes before we say hi and acknowledge that we haven’t really seen people for two weeks. And we all sort of fake-laugh about that and get quiet again. I’m with my friends Matt and Kevin. We’ve been friends for seven or eight years. They are coming to an Airbnb in the Hudson Valley with me for the next five weeks. They say we are still weeks from the worst of it in the city.

  “Can we listen to the Cranberries now?”

  I texted the boys earlier today, asking if we could listen to “Dreams.” I like that song and I like singing in cars. We all sing together. It feels good. We decide to listen to more Cranberries. We do the hits. The sun is setting and I take my phone out and take a video. I’ve never been a good photographer, or the one who takes the pictures, but I want to right now. Because I’m so happy to be outside. Not happy. I’m not happy really. I don’t know what I am. I am not in my apartment anymore. I am 90 percent less scared. Tonight anyway.

  “Ode to My Family” comes on. We all sing along. I know almost every word. I remember in fifth grade, my friends Erica and Susannah and I all recorded ourselves doing very serious music videos to this song. Solo. We each got our own video. Same sad song, though. My idea. What a fun kid.

  We reach the end of the song—“Does anyone care? Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo”—and I see Kevin bobbing and swaying his head so hard. We are really going for it with the doo doos. And I start giggling. Then I start to really laugh. This is insane. We are, like, dancing hard to the doo doo part of this sad Cranberries song on our way out of New York City because coronavirus is now seemingly everywhere in the city and Kevin and I work on shows that have all been postponed indefinitely and Matt’s office is closed and there isn’t time to question the fact that your whole life just changed also indefinitely and what will happen and what does any of it mean who cares DOO DOO DOO DOO and suddenly they are laughing so hard too. And finally we are all laughing really hard.