even if i am. (10 page)

chapter twenty-one

secret heart

You do stupid things when someone you love has cancer. Like Google the disease and the outcome. You research treatment options and life expectancies. You look at pictures of individuals fighting the same cancer, of receiving chemo, of tumors and surgeries. You read about symptoms and side effects. You read about celebrities like Katie Couric and wonder if you could call her at home. Ask her how she did it. How did she care for her husband during cancer?

I remember — maybe not the exact date, but I remember the moment. I remember going to a bookstore, alone. I did it sometimes when I needed to clear my head. I told Anthony I was going shopping or meeting a friend. I just went to the bookstore. As a means to escape, I’d pick up romance or sci-fi books, or any other kind of novel I would never normally buy, and get lost in the characters. I’d spend hours reading first chapters.

That day I sat on the floor of the health section surrounded by books on colon cancer: books I never read, in a section of the bookstore I never explored. I skimmed through dozens of newly revised paperbacks, looking for a positive sign, a clear end to the disease, and an answer to everything that was happening to us. Printed books held more weight than the online garbage I had been reading. I looked, relentlessly, at book after book, page after page. I found nothing encouraging. Read only grim statistics and outcomes, numbers and facts and testimonials.

Even with apparent warning signs typed out in bold font, I ignored the facts and focused on what I knew. Our story was about love, not cancer. Cancer was someone else’s story, like Katie Couric. I put the dismal books back on the shelf and smiled wide. Our love was unique, even miraculous. Our love could cure cancer, even if there was only an eight percent chance of survival.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Tuesday, August 30, 3:05 p.m.
Subject:
you’re right…

i should have written

but i called,

and wrote two texts…

and an e-mail after that

seemed to be a little obsessive…

besides, you’re looking way too sexy today

for me to deny a modest request…

i think it’s the happiness and excitement

of you producing, working hard,

that’s making you stand straight,

and fucking shine…

reminds me a little of when we first met…

oh god, this is turning into

another hallmark card isn’t it???

this is the second day

i’ve been off my chemo,

and i can feel the difference…

a reminder of what things

used to feel like…

weird.

but very, very good…

and my radiologist said

i am almost one third

of the way through my treatments…

i’ve done nine, and there are 28 in all…

crazy, right?

You were strong in spite of chemo and radiation, regardless of the occasional side effects. Your doctor prescribed pills, a rainbow of “just in case” options. I called them: “puke pills” to deal with nausea, “poop pills” to deal with diarrhea, “sleepy pills” for sleeping, and “yucky pills” for chemo. You know, clever names. We had backup pills in both cars, at my house, at yours, and at work. We were prepared to kick any side effect. And we did. We managed. Job well done.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Friday, September 2, 6:39 p.m.
Subject:
aw crap!

I heard a rumor that you and I are dating?

no seriously, a co-worker said

he heard a rumor that we are dating…

(he guessed you, or Zach).

I laughed and said nothing.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Friday, September 2, 6:54 p.m.
Subject:
Re: aw crap!

hmmmm… dating, eh?

well, let’s see…

next time you’re asked (or i am)

let’s have some other options available:

1. “no, we don’t go on dates, we just have sex…”
   
2. “dating? oh no, he’s just my rebound…”
   
3. “no comment.”
   
4. “we are 2 mature 2 be 4 gotten”
   
5. “is that what you heard? well, i heard you’re retarded. care to comment?”
   

the last one is my favorite so far…

maybe you have some ideas?

"Secret Heart"
Feist

…

I’m not sure who thought it was the best idea. Either way, we agreed. We’d keep our relationship secret until you were healthy. You didn’t want to be introduced to family and friends as, “My boyfriend with cancer.” I don’t blame you. I certainly didn’t want my grandma or dad to worry about me. I already had them concerned when I ended a five-year relationship and began living on my own. They were fearful I was making poor choices with my life. This would surely top their poor-choice list. And what if you got really sick? Or appeared sick? Or lost your hair? What would I tell them then? It seemed appropriate to keep our relationship secret. I’m not mad at you for this necessity. It made sense. In fact, I think it was my idea. Surely I wanted to tell everyone that I met someone, found true love. I wanted to share the very secret I had to conceal — my secret heart. But we put it off, agreeing, “One step at a time.”

The end of chemo was in sight. Next, we needed to get through surgery.

chapter twenty-two

rainy day

Counting down the days to surgery was like waiting for a vacation to Hawaii. I x’ed days off the calendar as you packed our suitcase. Hope had us high with anticipation. Though, with so much emotion came the inevitable rollercoaster ride of love fests and fights. Anxiety about a looming surgery led to crappy behavior — from both of us.

“What should I cook for dinner?” I asked one night.

“Um, eggs sound good?”

“Breakfast for dinner, eh?”

“Sounds yummy. Babe, mind if I lie down? I’m not feeling great.”

I thought I could be helpful, cook dinner and let you get some rest. I went to the kitchen, pulled out the frying pan, eggs and sausages. As the eggs cooked I sprinkled cheese on top. I never paid much attention to the details of cooking. It was a must-do task, and always tedious. My mind wandered to someday in the future, when “not feeling great” meant a cold or a headache. I thought of kissing you on our wedding day. I could see us summering in Maine with your family, splashing in the lake. I left the plastic spatula leaning on the frying pan’s edge, eggs bubbling, sausages browning and went to check on you. Babe, you looked so comfortable, warm and cozy. I wanted to jump in and snuggle. Instead I let you rest and went back to the stove. I grabbed the plastic spatula. Heat stung my fingers, and the plastic melted into my palm.

I threw the utensil across the room, shrieking in pain.

You came running to my aid.

“Never mind,” I snapped. “I’m fine.” I immediately pulled away then turned my back. I soaked my hand in cold water, removing the melted plastic from my palm. After cooling the burn, I hurried to the medicine cabinet and applied salve.

I looked for you in the bedroom. You were sitting on the bed, clearly upset. “Are you feeling better?” I said, calm.

“No.” You forced the word out between your teeth.

“Are you mad at me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause you told me to leave you alone.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes. You did. Maybe not those exact words, but I felt like you didn’t need me.”

“I didn’t. I’m fine. It’s just a small burn.” I quieted my voice. I wanted the conversation to head back to us in love.

“But I could’ve helped,” you snapped.

“How?”

“I don’t know, comforted you or something.”

“It’s just a burn.”

“But I wanted to help! The spatula melted into your hand.”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“Don’t push me away when you’re hurt. I can still take care of you. I’m not helpless.” You were grasping for control of the situation; so was I.

“I never said you were.”

“But that’s how I felt.” You turned your head away from me.

“I’m sorry. It’s just a stupid burn. Big deal.”

Isn’t it funny how a conversation could just slip away from us, babe? How a long, awkward silence could fill the room. I stared at my burnt palm, then reached for your shoulder to comfort you.

“I’m not hungry,” you said breaking the quiet.

“What?”

“I said I’m not hungry.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause, I’m not.”

“But you haven’t eaten anything.” I could hear my voice rise.

“So?”

“Anthony.”

“I’m feeling nauseated, okay? I just took my puke pills.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“‘Cause you’re hurt.”

“Oh my God, it’s just a small burn.”

“I’m going home. I feel nauseated and the smell of your eggs is going to make me throw up.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I shook my head. “Fine. Go.”

It was my fault. I pushed you away. My burn was so minor. I wanted you to rest and then join me for dinner, not care for my hand. You weren’t feeling good. I’m sorry, Anthony. I was stressing. With surgery around the corner, side effects, and meeting your mom, I had a lot to deal with. I was pretending everything was fine between us — not even okay, but extraordinary. And when things weren’t extraordinary between us, I took it out on you. It was foolish, but I wanted to be strong, not struggling with uncertainty.

I ate my eggs alone that night. Then, led by regret, I e-mailed you.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Saturday, September 10, 11:30 p.m.
Subject:
when did it become so difficult?

we have gone too far into the serious side,

that we keep losing track.

damnit, let’s have fun already,

stop focusing on the problems, on cancer

and enjoy the moments we spend together…

because if this relationship isn’t fun,

then what are we doing?

I knew you were mad at me, but somehow this was different. I screwed up. You made sure I knew; you didn’t e-mail back.

…

The smell of rain humidified the air. I hit snooze twice, three times. I’m convinced rain in Los Angeles should be considered a snow day, a break from routine, from working hard, and a day to stay under the blankets. Even Gladys didn’t want to undo the tight ball of her sleeping body.

Contemplating a fourth snooze, I heard a knock on the door. Doubtful it was my house, I rolled over. Another knock disturbed the chilled room. What the hell do the neighbors want at eight in the morning? I dragged myself out from the depths of my comforter and headed to the door. Gladys didn’t budge.

Soaking from the rain, bright yellow sunflowers glowed just under your chin. Babe, I was shocked to see you. Apprehension had me concerned what I was wearing; my polar bear pants that I’ve had since high school and a sleeveless t-shirt from a previous decade. Nope. Not sexy at all. I brushed the front of my sleeveless to straighten the wrinkles, then opened the screen door.

“I didn’t know you were coming.” I’m an idiot.

You didn’t say a word, just stood there in the rain, looking all cute and cuddly and sweet.

“Anthony, I’m sor — ”

“I love you more.” You interrupted. There was no time for apologies; we were too busy taking off wet clothes and polar bear pants.

“Thank you for the flowers…”

You kissed the back of my head as we spooned.

“I’m sorry I didn’t eat your eggs.”

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Monday, September 12, 10:20 a.m.
Subject:
rainy day

rainy day at work…

i think everyone here

is having the same thought we had

when we were on your bed

(stay home and cuddle).

it felt wonderful bringing you flowers,

being a boy, and you being a girl…

mmmmm…

thinking of all the things

we could be doing in your bed…

reading, napping, loving,

glayds jumping up to get

in the middle of the two of us,

making oatmeal and coffee,

drinking hot tea in sweaters,

getting under your covers

and taking everything off…

fuck!

it should rain more often…

and what the hell are we doing here?

"Rainy Day"
Shuggie Otis

Shuggie Otis gave me the same giddy reaction that I felt after reading your first-ever e-mail. You know, I’m not sure when a honeymoon phase starts or ends. You hear stories about meeting “the one.” The characters comically extract themselves from problems and get on with their destinies. In real life, I didn’t know if I was pursuing the right path or not, or how it would all work out — I could only hope that this ugly reality was part of attaining a fat, fulfilling love. This seemed to be the right time in our lives for falling in love, for paying off student loans, building credit, and house hunting. The time when we hoped for an engagement, considered having children — in short, when we should start making a future based on our love.

Yet, we worried about cancer. Babe, we’d get so caught up in coping, filling our days with tasks and to-dos, getting bogged down in circumstances, feeling angry at your diagnosis, treatments, and surgery. The worst part… Anthony, you’d be mad at me if I told you this sooner, but the worst part was that I’d get so caught up in it that I’d forget you loved me. I know it seems silly. How could someone forget they’re loved? I don’t know. But, I did sometimes.