by Ka Hancock
Priscilla’s mouth opened but nothing came out. She bore her eyes into mine until hers filled with tears. “Lucy, please. I get that you are in love with your baby. But next to you, she doesn’t mean anything—she’s not real. She’s not real to any of us. You’re real, Lucy. Don’t you get that? You beat this before and you can beat it again, but you have to fight. How can you not fight for your life? How can you not do that for Mickey, for Lily . . . for me? Lucy, you’re going to die!”
“I am, Priss,” I said, looking deeply into her eyes.
“So you need—” My sister stopped breathing.
I nodded.
“No, Lucy. You don’t know that.”
I got up and put my arms around my sister. “Yes I do. I know.”
“What?” For a moment she did not move, but then she drew back. “No, no, no. We’re not leaving this to a dream, a ghost. Lucy! I’m not listening to this!”
I looked at my sister, held her eyes, and made the same promise I’d made to Mickey. “I’m having this baby, Priss,” I said softly. “And once she’s here, I’ll do everything I can to save my life. That’s the best I can do.”
Priscilla opened her mouth, but closed it, defeated. I didn’t move.
“So that’s it, Lucy? That’s it? What if you’re wrong?” She shook her head. “If you die . . .” I watched my sister try to swallow back emotion. “If you die, Lucy, I’ll never forgive you.”
I said nothing.
Priscilla got up and walked out of my house.
nineteen
AUGUST 23, 2011
It’s been a long time since I lost myself completely. But it’s coming. I feel it. When I’m like this, Lucy alone has the power to ground me. But we’re not talking at the moment.
Gleason refuses to see my side of things. He’s accused me of using my condition as an excuse for bad behavior. He says the sadness I’m feeling isn’t pathological. It’s just life. That I have no business self-medicating my way out of it.
“I am ashamed of you,” he says. “Have you really got nothing more than this for Lucy?”
I sat there and let his words rain on me like stones falling from the sky.
“Get off the stage, my friend,” he told me. “This is not about you, or being bipolar. You are like any other person in this sad situation—no more than a spectator forced to endure a tragedy. What you’re doing is an issue of character, Michael, not pathology. You can’t hide your sins behind your diagnosis. If anything drives you to self-destruct, it will not be losing Lucy, but your own behavior as it happened.”
I was so angry that I refused to finish my session with him and slammed the door on my way out. Then I went over to Colby’s for a drink. Then I went home and fought with Lucy, the one person I hated to hurt but did so well.
After his desperate faith in Priscilla’s powers of persuasion failed him, Mickey had no choice but to be mad at me. But, bless his heart, he tried to be civil, tried to quell his mounting resentment. He even feigned support. But, like a man trying to paddle an ocean liner with a spoon, it yielded no result.
I would catch him looking at me sometimes, his eyes moist with condemnation. He’d hold my gaze long enough to make his point, then turn away in disgust. Or sometimes he would come up behind me and wrap his arms around my waist. He’d lean his face into my neck and I’d wonder if he was softening, but then he’d groan and shove himself away from me. Again, making his point.
This was so much worse than last time. When I had cancer before, Mickey’s fear and anguish were suffocating. But they were tempered by his faith in my treatment regimen, which was brutal. I could have died from ten complications, but his hope was unyielding because I was actively fighting for my life. This time I wasn’t.
The bottom line was Mickey couldn’t forgive me for not having the abortion. So we were brittle with each other because we couldn’t be anything else.
A couple of weeks after I didn’t abort our baby, I came home from a faculty meeting to find Mickey sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. I reached over to touch him, but he inched away. “What are you doing, Mic?”
“Just thinking.”
“Well, don’t hurt yourself.” No chuckle, so I sat down next to him. “Sorry.”
“Do you love me, Lucy?” he said to the floor.
“Of course I love you, what kind of question is that?”
“How much do you love me?”
I shook my head. “Mickey, there isn’t an end. You know that.”
“I used to know that.”
I brought his face close to mine and saw that he’d been crying. “What do you mean, you used to know that?”
“I need an honest answer, Lucy. Do you love the baby more than you love me?”
“No. Of course not.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Mickey, don’t say that. I love this baby as much as you love this baby. She’s our daughter.”
He pushed my hand away and stood up. “I don’t love her as much as I love you. I wouldn’t give you up for her. I wouldn’t leave you for her.”
I pushed out a breath. “Why are you doing this?”
He leaned over to within an inch of my face to yell, “I just want you to be honest, Lucy. This isn’t about me! I was important for almost eleven years, but now you’re getting your precious baby even if she costs you your life. That’s all you care about. But I don’t know what you think is going to happen after . . .”
“After what?”
“Look at me! Do I really look like single-father material to you, Lucy?”
“Mickey?”
“I can’t . . . I can’t do this right now.”
“Mickey, c’mon.”
He stood up and grabbed his tie from the foot of the bed. “I’m leaving. Have a nice night.”
“Mickey, don’t leave like this.”
But it was too late. He was already down the stairs, and a second later I heard the front door slam.
Later, I’d been dozing on the couch trying to wait up for him when he called. His words were slurred and I couldn’t tell if he’d been drinking, which he rarely does, or if he’d swallowed too many Klonopin, which he takes for anxiety.
“Mickey, come home, it’s late. I’ll make you some scrambled eggs.”
“I just don’t feel like it tonight, Lucy. I don’t want to come home and watch you die anymore. I’m sick of it. I don’t know when I’ll be home, but don’t wait up.” He hung up and I stared at the phone for a long moment before I threw it against the wall. Watch me die anymore?
I picked up the phone from where I had tossed it and dialed Partners. “Is Mickey still there, Brian?” I asked the bartender.
“I haven’t seen him all night, Lucy.”
“When did he leave?”
“I haven’t seen him at all.”
“Really?”
“You okay, Lucy?”
“I’m fine. If you do see him, will you call me on my cell?”
“I got a backup tonight, Lucy. Want me to go look for him? Just say the word.”
“Brian, you’re a doll. You just call me if you see him.”
“Will do.”
I hung up the phone and stormed upstairs to change out of my pajamas. Damn him! It was after midnight. How dare he pull this! Where was he? I slid into my biggest pair of jeans and was buttoning my shirt when I heard the back door slam shut. I walked to the top of the stairs and sat down. Mickey was banging around in the kitchen, and I heard him swear when a glass broke in the sink. I raked my hair and waited.
Finally, Mickey was at the foot of the stairs. He glared up at me, then he pointed his finger and slurred, “I’ve decided you are the most selfish person I know, Lucy.” He took a step up. “I was talking to a woman tonight. She said I looked sad, so I told her all about our little domestic situation. And she pointed out that you are calling all the shots. And I’m just like you said, pathetic enough to be letting you.” Mickey teetered as he made a few more stairs. “She said I
’m a victim of your whims. That’s what she said. She was a smart lady.”
“Did she say you were an idiot?”
His eyes hardened. “No, Lucy. She said I was a lot of things, but she didn’t say that.”
“Did you tell her she was an idiot and should mind her own business?”
“Actually, I was rather enjoying her company.”
“So where did this stimulating conversation take place?”
“I told you. She was a customer.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Well, then I’m confused, because Brian said he hadn’t seen you all night.”
The skin around Mickey’s eyes tightened, then his balled-up fist crashed down on the banister. “You checking up on me now, Lucy?”
“Doesn’t look like I have much of a choice, Michael.”
“Great. That’s just great.”
“Why are you slurring?”
“Why the hell does it matter?” Mickey was now standing directly in front of me. I looked up at him.
“Don’t do this. Don’t fight with me. Don’t say the stupid things you’re thinking.”
“Stupid? You mean things like, you’re selfish? Or that you’re only thinking about yourself?” His voice lifted. “It’s always about you, Lucy! No discussion! You’re just not going to do what you’re not going to do. To hell with me. Oh, who the hell cares?” Mickey moved to step over me, but I stood up and he lost his balance, nearly falling down the stairs. I grabbed him but he pushed me away as he lowered himself to the ground. “Leave me alone, Lucy. Just leave me the hell alone.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Slowly, he lifted his face to meet mine. He looked unbelievably sad, his eyes momentarily raw, stripped of hostility. “Have the abortion,” he said wearily.
I slumped against the newel and stared at my husband, all folded in on himself. I loved him so much. All I had to do was reach for him and I could turn this moment around. I could put his life back together if I just did what he asked. But I loved him so much more than aborting this baby would prove to him—I loved him so much that I could never leave him alone.
“Forget it, Lucy,” he said, getting to his feet. “It doesn’t matter because you’ve already decided.” He stared at me for a long time, long enough for me to feel exposed by my thoughts.
I let out a jagged breath. “Mickey, please don’t do this. Don’t waste this time being mad at me. You won’t be able to forgive yourself when—”
“I am so sick of you having all the answers,” he sneered. “I just about hate you for this, and until you change your mind, that’s just how it’s going to be!” He steadied himself against the railing and took a step. He needed a haircut and a shave. His shirt was halfway untucked and he pulled it out. “I’m getting in the shower,” he said, walking away.
“I’m going to die anyway, Mickey,” I said softly to the wall. I wasn’t sure he’d heard me until he stopped, and now I could feel his eyes burning into me. “It doesn’t matter if I have the abortion or not, Mic, I’m going to die. And you know it. Whether I have chemotherapy or radiation or surgery or a million IV vitamins, it’s going to happen. I don’t know when—hopefully many, many months from now—but I won’t survive it again.” I turned to look at him. His face was hard, impassive, but an unreal calm was in my voice. “We need to face this so we can stop hurting each other and get on with what we have left.”
I was so proud of myself for not crying, but then I heard a sob break in Mickey’s throat and I couldn’t keep my tears back. “Please,” I whispered.
A shadow of softness passed through his eyes, and he looked ready to say something, but instead he just shook his head and walked away.
I slumped back against the railing. My whole body was swollen with sadness and I didn’t think I had the strength to get up and face it all again in the morning. I just wanted to sleep for a year and wake up in a world where Mickey wasn’t sick and I wasn’t sick and there was a long life in our future. I closed my eyes and wept.
As I sat there wallowing, I felt the whisper of something lovely and familiar. The sensation, ever so slowly, wound its way around me until I felt cradled in a soft hand of comfort. My heart slowed and my tears dried. I didn’t see her when I opened my eyes, but it didn’t matter. I knew she’d been there because I could feel the peace she’d left in her wake. I sat there for a few more minutes basking in the experience until it evaporated, leaving me with just the lingering reassurance that there was nothing to be afraid of.
The shower was now off and I could hear Mickey rummaging in a drawer for his underwear. When it was quiet, I got up and walked into our dark room, took off my clothes, and crawled into bed. Mickey had his back to me, so I stared up at the ceiling and relished the gift I’d just received. As I lay there, the baby inside me moved. She was stronger than the rolls and flutters of the last few weeks, and now I could feel her with my hand, which excited me unbelievably. “Mickey?”
“I can’t fight anymore, Lucy. Let’s just go to sleep.”
“Mickey, give me your hand.”
“Lucy, I’m tired.”
“Please.”
Mickey grudgingly rolled over and I put his hand on my stomach. For a long time she was still, and I thought Mickey had fallen asleep. But then she moved, and I felt Mickey stiffen. “What was that?” he whispered. She kicked again, a good, hardy jab, and Mickey jerked his hand away and sat up. “What is that?”
“It’s her.” I took his hand once more and he slowly lay back down. The baby kicked again, and again, and Mickey draped his long leg over mine and settled in.
“That’s really the baby?”
“That’s our daughter.”
I felt him start to cry and reached over to stroke his face in the dark. Soon his arms came around me. “I can’t do this without you,” he rasped.
I had no magic for him, so I just rubbed his head until he fell asleep and prayed for a small reprieve. Before he got out of bed the next morning, Mickey kissed my belly and looked at me with a kind of wonder I hadn’t seen since I’d first told him I was pregnant. Tenderness and apology were in his eyes.
Sadly, none of this halted Mickey’s approaching downslide—far from it. It simply added a cruel wrinkle as he tried to wrap his head around a baby he knew he loved, but was costing him his wife.
twenty
AUGUST 29, 2011
My first memory as an insane person was two years before I was diagnosed as manic-depressive. I was lying in my bed and listening to my mother die of sadness in the next room. The anguished note she kept hitting struck me as the absolute definition of hopelessness. I wanted the sound to stop. I wanted her to smile and love me and be like my best friend Jonathon’s mom. She laughed and gave hugs. She checked Jonathon’s spelling, and mine if I was over there. I wished my mom could be like that.
I climbed out of bed that night with a perfectly logical plan for bringing this wish about. Some nights, my mother shouted her prayers so loud I was sure the neighbors would know she was crazy. My brother, David, always brought her water and told her to take her pills. My dad talked sweet to her for as long as he could stand it, then he would leave and not come home until late. On the night when craziness began to bloom in me, I was convinced that if I begged God, he would grant my wish. But since it was clear he could not hear my mother, and would therefore never hear me, I wrote my prayer. I wrote it in my social studies notebook, certain that he would see it, because God sees everything. I wrote it for hours. I wrote it until my hand hurt. I wrote it all night long. Just one word—please. 9,871 times.
The most common symptom of cancer in the lung is a cough. I had learned that this is because the lesion causes irritation in the airway tissues. I’d been coughing for several weeks, and Charlotte warned me that my lung might at some point need to be drained of the fluid that was building up in response to my tumors. I understood this. I’d educated myself enough to know that without int
ervention, the lesions in my left lower lobe would continue to grow. I was supposed to tell Charlotte if I began experiencing any chest pain, shortness of breath, or if I started coughing up blood. These, I understood, were signs that things had advanced to a dangerous level.
Charlotte was consulting with Dr. Gladstone, whom I had come to refer to as my lung guy, about my situation. I’d seen him in the hospital and I had an appointment with him the next week so he could evaluate how far I had shifted from my baseline function. Dr. Gladstone would do any surgery after the baby was born. Until then, he would monitor my condition.
In the meantime, Charlotte was treating me with vitamins and pure juices and visualization. Sheer nonsense, according to Priscilla, but I knew enough about nutrition to know that whatever could be done to strengthen the healthy cells in me was a good thing. Besides, I felt pretty good, so I wasn’t complaining.
Charlotte’s office became my refuge, the only place I could think straight. There, I could study hard data and empirical evidence and breathe the air of absolutes while avoiding the more fluid world of my family’s opinions and interpretations.
I spent my time poring through the periodicals that lined her shelves and surfing her Internet. I read everything I could find about having metastatic breast cancer while being pregnant. I memorized case studies and mortality rates on babies that had been conditioned by the stress of their mothers’ illnesses. I researched hormone therapy and all the latest chemotherapeutic agents, searching for one that could extinguish my disease but not hurt my baby. I recognized the names of many of the cytotoxic drugs from last time. I learned that some might cautiously be considered in my situation, but none were absolutely guaranteed safe for an unborn baby. I read everything I could find about trastuzumab, gemcitabine, Adriamycin, and paclitaxel. I learned the difference between the anthracyclines and the taxanes, and I held my breath over the promising studies that floated through cyberspace and breathed out my disappointment over their potential effects on a fetus. Some cancer medications were thought to be safe a high percentage of the time when administered late in pregnancy. But in the end, I simply had no faith in any drug whose job it was to destroy cells indiscriminately.