even if i am. (18 page)

Us on Christmas Eve, somewhere off the coast of Baja.

chapter thirty-three

in the sun

Saturday, January 7

in the middle

halftime?

intermission?

c’mon glass, there’s an analogy here somewhere…

with some argument from my insides, i can say now

that i have completely recovered from the surgery.

i am walking, moving, and living just like i used to.

and it’s fucking great.

most times, the thoughts of cancer, of surgery, of everything,

recedes to the back of my head,

and quietly lies down for a nap.

but they wake easily.

running my hand across my belly,

there’s a twelve inch reminder:

of the weeks past, of the months ahead.

visited the oncologist this week and got my chemo recipe:

one two-hour IV treatment of oxyplatinum every three weeks,

two pills of xoloda taken twice a day between treatments,

six cycles.

simmer.

for best results add supplements during treatment.

so here we are,

and i still don’t have a metaphor.

the short break before the last climb?

ewey, that’s cheeseball.

the deep breath before… aw gad, that’s worse.

honestly, it sucks to start over again.

to have worked back to feeling normal,

and to have to give that up.

but the last couple of weeks have been great,

and if anything, they are a reminder of what

it will be like after these six cycles are done.

that is something to look forward to.

on that note, i’ve included a picture from christmas in mexico:

chas and i warming our feet by the fireplace.

yum.

Our toes warmed by the fire on Christmas morning.

posted by Anthony Glass at 7:43 a.m.

…

I’m a pretty girl. I’m not trying to sound vain. Though, I think that is all your mother sees in me — the blonde hair, the pretty face. I’m not smart or talented or even interesting. I didn’t graduate from college. I can’t believe I told her that. “I was getting far more experience working than through education.” I wish hadn’t said that. She went through grad school supporting three growing boys, and I made it seem as if an education wasn’t important. Ugh. I’m just another pretty girl among all the girls she’s met before.

I don’t want you to think I hated her. I don’t hate her. It’s just when she came to visit for a random weekend, she tried to make up for the weeks she hadn’t been here. She’d fly into town for a biopsy or scan, stay for two days, then fly home. Babe, I’m sorry, but her visits were tiresome. She’d tell me what we needed to do for your health, what vitamins you should take, what your calorie count should be. Do you remember when she taught me how to properly rub your back, on your back? She moved my hand from your shoulder in order to show me the pressure points. “Apply pressure to both sides of the spine like this. Use your fingers and move your way upward to his skull.” My palm turned clammy with embarrassment. I didn’t know anything about pressure points. I started doubting myself. I didn’t even know how to rub your back right. What if loving you wasn’t enough? She could do that. In two days, she could somehow make me feel like a crappy girlfriend. I needed to do more, cook healthier, rub your back harder.

Okay, maybe I was starting to hate her. Why wasn’t she here more? Her son had cancer, for God’s sake! I was attending every follow-up, every treatment, every holistic opinion, doing everything I could possibly do. So what if I didn’t know how to cook broccoli in the stupid microwave?

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Tuesday, January 10, 5:45 p.m.
Subject:
hello there

i’m getting into the shower,

and my mom is sitting at the puzzle.

i wish you were here to help her with the puzzle,

and tickle me as i get into the shower.

so, my mom and i have been discussing the merits

of switching to the PPO versus staying with my HMO,

and i think i’m going to stick with the HMO

(assuming i am still able to do so).

with all the chemo i will be taking for the next few months

and potential follow-ups in the months following,

it seems like it makes sense financially to stay HMO.

you can imagine how much fun we’re having discussing it.

up next: 401k.

i need you here.

now.

help.

buffer.

something…

hope your day is going well.

you really should get here soon,

i might kill her before long…

i fuckin’ love the fuck out of you.

work hard.

see you soon.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Tuesday, January 10, 6:15 p.m.
Subject:
mom

have a good day with your mom today.

she is trying to help…

but yes, it will be wonderful to drive her to the airport tonight.

(did I just type that?)

know that I am thinking of you. like always.

(mmm, to tickle you…)

…

You returned to work, and we picked up our old routine where we left off. We forgave quickly, kissed slowly, laughed uncontrollably. I thanked God on drives home. Held heavenly conversations of gratitude. It was hard to believe only eleven months of strange steps traced back to the beginning.

Babe, we are a story about love, not cancer. Our chapters ended sweetly with the four simple words, I fucking love you. We believed that there was so much ahead of us that we had no need to look back at old chapters. We talked about cancer less. Our lips were fat with kisses and the words I love you. We let our smiles twist and turn, just wanting to be together. When chemo started I barely noticed the change in each day.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Monday, January 16, 7:30 p.m.
Subject:
hmmmm…

how this day has gotten away from us.

no e-mail?

maybe because i’ve been obsessed with

going through my footage

and finishing this edit;

or maybe it’s because you came in this morning,

looking so fresh and so beautiful,

you kind of knocked me out a bit.

finally got some good news

from the last project.

the client loved it

and kaethy even read the e-mail out loud

to give me the good news verbatim.

nice.

now if i can just do something brilliant

with this new project.

how was the rest of your day?

why haven’t you come by to give me

any more kisses/loving/sweetness?

p.s. kisses and touching in the stairwell was nice. i like being back at work.

…

I never liked needles or hospitals, and especially not needles at hospitals. I don’t even like watching Gladys get a shot from the vet; the technician grabs her leash, and I stay in the waiting room, feeling like a bad mother. With you, I did not have the luxury of being squeamish. The quality of love and reciprocity changed everything. I could watch them connect and disconnect the intravenous chemo. I could watch the needles pierce your skin, no problem. I saw it. I didn’t turn. I didn’t faint. I could even pull the sticky bandages off your hairy arm. My mom once told me that “God doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle.” I don’t know what God has to do with this, but it made me feel better when I pulled off your Band Aids and kissed your hurts.

…

You nicknamed him Dr. Apathy. His smile was detached. His hair was nonchalant, even his clothes were drab. I will grant that administering chemo to patients five days a week is not a job in which to invest much emotion, but every visit made us feel like a paycheck, not a patient. He even rescheduled one of your treatments to attend his daughter’s soccer game. His patients were fighting for their lives, and he was more concerned about missing a soccer game? Crook.

His waiting room was so full that he set up your chemo in his office and plopped you on his couch. Babe, I still don’t know how you could sit in the waiting room and thumb through the books filling the shelves,
American Cancer Society: Guide to Cancer Drugs, Second Edition
;
Everyone’s Guide to Cancer Therapy
;
The Cancer Book
;
Informed Decisions
. I merely stared at the pictures of Dr. Apathy with his family vacationing, celebrating holidays, marking key moments of a healthy family. Enough photos to witness two beautiful daughters mature from babies, to high school, to college. The pictures annoyed me. Can you believe he had the nerve to answer his phone and make dinner plans with his wife? In front of us?

Whether we liked him or not, we didn’t have a choice. He was your HMO. I couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the whole damn thing.

…

“Let’s run away for your birthday,” I said. I wanted to be snuggling and asking you in person, not over the phone.

“No, that’s okay. I was thinking of just going to dinner, inviting some friends. Plus, we have chemo on Tuesday.”

“It’s not a question,” I said. “The boat leaves at ten a.m. and it’s a hour-long ride. We both have Monday off, so it’ll be a three-day weekend. I already packed snacks and your suitcase…”

“Really, go away for my birthday? Where are we going?”

“Catalina is the farthest I could get us out of the country…”

Your laugh was loud. “I fucking love you.”

“I love you more. Happy Birthday, baby.”

Anthony and me in Catalina on his 31
^st
birthday.

Tuesday, January 24

it is a happy birfday

sitting down to write.

it’s cold.

i’m tired.

not ideal conditions.

my memory walks to the fridge and opens a beer.

a place writers have found inspiration since writing began.

but these are not those times.

so instead, i walk to the stove and boil water.

pour a cup of green tea.

and sit down again.

it was my birthday yesterday.

31 years old.

i’m comfortable with my age.

confident with my life.

but let’s be honest, not a sexy number.