even if i am. (32 page)

Hospice put a hand on my shaking shoulder and said, “It’s time. Time to hold him. Time to tell him it’s okay to go.” Your mother and I each held your hand. I rubbed your head because I knew you liked that. I wanted you to know I was close.

“I’m okay, babe. I’ll be okay. I love you. I love you so much. I love you. It’s okay… You can go now. I love you.” Each word destroyed me.

Your mother continued my sentiments. “I’ll continue loving you. Thank you for the blessing of being your mother. I am so proud of you. I love you…”

I was numb. Shocked. Stunned. I remember holding your hand and how it grew instantly lifeless. Your soft knuckles under my thumb, the movement of your skin with the brush of my finger, smooth, then wrinkled. The rattling, percolating sounds with each breath. Dreaming and smiling. The smell of baby powder and sweat and mint. Your breath shallow and deep, soft and slow. You opened your eyes to stare off in a corner to cough, to sigh. I rubbed your chest for your comfort, or my own. Your eyes never focused on me.

I said, “Squeeze my hand one last time, babe. Remind me again that you love…”

You clutched our fingers as tight as you could, feeling weak and soft.

Then took your last breath.

…

I wanted to climb on top of you and let the breath of your lungs push me up and down. I wanted to rest my face on your chest and check for signs of life.

“I love your skinny arm.” I kissed it. “I love your soft cheeks.” I kissed them. “I love your nose.” Kissed it. “I love your earlobes. Did I ever tell you, you have the world’s softest earlobes? I love your earlobes. I love you.” I kissed them. “I love you more,” I said, but you were already gone.

I held you there. Your eyes got black and your breath stopped and your body got tight. There are things about death that no one tells you. Things that are gross and descriptive and smell weird. It took me a while to disconnect. I waited for it to sink in, to feel you gone. I wanted a brochure. I wanted to read about what I was supposed to be feeling, or doing. You were lying in front of me — I could touch you, feel you, but you were no longer you. Just a body ridden with cancer.

I didn’t move for hours, or maybe it was only minutes. Time does strange things when you love a person with cancer.

Hospice came in, starting singing a hymn and doing what hospice does, the angels of death, loving the soul and honoring the beauty of death. She undressed you slowly, bathed you one last time, leaving the cross on your forehead. Singing throughout her movements. You were naked. Peaceful. Transcending the physical world as she closed your eyes and crossed your hands over your chest. I know I wanted to cry but I couldn’t. I didn’t. I only watched you lie there.

My breathing became shallow. The two sides of my brain stopped talking to each other. I’m not sure I even had a brain at this point. My responses were distant and glossed-over, as in a movie where everything around the actor is motion but their body is still. A freeze frame. I felt disconnected and unsafe. I had this strong urge to get drunk or self-medicate. Waves of overwhelming numbness paralyzed my ability to cope or even stand up. I was caught in the moment, taking a picture of a worrisome scene.

Your mother turned on classical music. I sat and watched your body as a solo violin started the concerto. Waiting for you to take another breath, to tell your mother to turn the music down. A fly landed on your eyelashes, making his way to your eye. I waved my hands across your face to startle him. “Shoo fly.” This is what I probably said, or maybe I didn’t say anything at all. The increased volume and richer sound of the music had me standing over your body. Not wanting to touch you, but protecting you from a housefly. Everything slowed down. The image of you blurred and the voices in the distance faded. All I heard was the buzzing. Buzzing mixed with the orchestral melody.

The fly landed on my chest. I glanced down, not even realizing until then that I was still wearing my wedding dress.

chapter fifty-one

a classical station

Two men from the morgue came. They wore navy blue suits. They entered the house with a stretcher and a green body bag. Gladys growled, trying to bite the metal wheels along the hardwood. She knew this machinery was here to take you and she did not approve. I had to carry her outside as the men came to do what they were paid to do; pick up and remove a body in a bag. A body. You were no longer a name or a personality or even a sex. You were a body.

“Miss, you’ll need to remove any valuables from the body first.”

I was confused — you weren’t wearing anything. You were naked.

“You need to remove his wedding ring,” your mother said.

You still had a fist. I worked the band off your finger, and started crying as they lifted your body. Knowing this would be the last time I would see you.

…

I called my father. He said he would be on the next flight, and he was.

I called my mother. She cried, saying the word sorry over and over.

…

I didn’t know who to call next, or what to do, or the protocol. I didn’t know where to begin. I called the sweetest voice I knew; I called Julie. I asked her if she could call Jay first. He would’ve been the first person I called if I had the strength.

“I’ll call as soon as we hang up.”

“Thank you, Jules.”

“Is it okay if I come later tonight to check in…”

“Yes. I’d like that.”

“Chas, I’m so sorry.”

“Me too.” I could hear her whimper as we said goodbye.

I called Kaethy at the office next and left a message.

…

All of a sudden the house was active. I didn’t realize just how many people and medical supplies were in each room. I was thankful your stepfather was there; he did all the planning and paperwork and logistics. I just said yes or no to decisions, signed things, wrote checks. He made funeral plans and meal plans and flight plans and crematory plans. He did everything. Your mother and I just sat on the couch staring at an empty television, trying to comprehend the events around us.

…

Babe, can we talk? I need to tell you something. I need you to know that I am sorry. I’m sorry I pushed you to see your friends, pushed you too hard during the ceremony. Why did I agree to stopping the pain medication? I knew you were exhausted after the wedding. I should have cancelled the reception and planned it for another day. I think it was too much. I pushed you too hard. I shouldn’t have. I regret being selfish. Maybe you would’ve stayed with me for a few more days, if only I hadn’t pushed you so hard. It’s my fault, and baby, I’m sorry. I thought we had weeks left. I didn’t know what to do.

…

“Zach?”

“Hiii…”

“He’s gone.”

“Fuck. I know, I talked to Julie.”

“He’s gone Zach and…”

“I’m here.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m here if you need anything.” Pause. “Chas?”

“I don’t know what to do…”

“You keep loving him, that’s what you do.”

“But what if I forget…”

“You won’t, because he wouldn’t let you.”

…

I didn’t know what to do. I know I was loved but, for some reason I was caught up in how fast your disease came and how short our time was. I was caught up and angry at your prognosis, and how ineffective your treatments were. I was so caught up in the idea that I pushed you too hard, that I forgot — I forgot you loved me.

I know. It’s foolish. I wished you were there so I could tell you all the things I forgot to say or kiss the parts of your body I missed, like the backs of your knees. Why didn’t I kiss them? I wish you were here now. I’d kiss the shit out of your knees.

…

I grabbed the book you made me for Christmas, the book of all the e-mails we sent. I turned to July 27
th
, exactly a year ago.

Remind me I am loved. Tell me what to do.

chapter fifty-two

i couldn’t attach the song
i wanted to send with this

“We believe that Anthony is at peace. We saw that in his last days he achieved his solitude, even in the presence of weakness, discomfort, and impending death. We remember joyful smiles, tender words, and deep affection to Chas and those around him, even at the very end. The cancer defeated his body, but nothing defeated his spirit.”

Laura, our Reverend, continued the service as I looked around at all the faces. Some I knew, some I didn’t. Some wept, others stared blankly ahead. I wander back and forth from face to face, not making eye contact. I felt the sadness roll into crashing doubts of everything in my life. I had no ability to make meaning in the suits and blazers and high heels. I want it to be over. Get out of this fitted black dress and back into my pajamas.

How could you leave me here, babe, listening to your brother reading a eulogy, actually telling the church that you “had skills with women.”

“He had mastered and understood women almost a decade ahead of his time.”

I was laughing, but acting as if I were in tears. I looked around the church. I saw Jay, a familiar face; he too was laughing but I thought it might be a cover-up for his tears. This gave me the giggles. Do wives giggle at their husband’s funeral? My dad sat to my left. Crying. I’d never seen my dad cry before. Funny to think that you were the one making him cry, babe. He was so quiet. His tears go almost unnoticed. He was gazing at the photo of you at the head of the church.

This is the photograph we framed for the memorial service.

“It’s okay, Dad.” He looks up at me. “I’m okay.” I held his clammy hand for comfort. He looked back up at the photo. It was the one of you visiting your grandmother. You have this big toothy smile as your grandmother takes the photo.

My dad caught his breath. “I’m meeting your husband for the first time.”

I was senseless. You never met my dad. I forgot.

Jay walked up to the podium. He looked sad and I bet that he wouldn’t get through the first sentence. “You, Anthony, were so kind to this world.” Jay stood strong and steady, grabbing my attention. “In a world that is full of selfishness and indifference, a small gaze of compassion from your strong, kind eyes would soften the hearts of so many who were calloused and jaded.” Jay sounded like a public speaker, a politician. “Anthony has always been my rock that I cling to in times of despair and sadness, and I was lucky enough to spend a little bit of time with him on his last day, and as he lay there taking some of his last breaths, he could see me trying to hold back the tears, he could sense my fear and sadness. In an effort to console ME, he turned his head, held my hand so tight, gazed at me with those selfless, kind eyes, and in such a soft, sweet, tired voice whispered, ‘Its gonna be okay.’ And it IS gonna be okay because you, Anthony, with your unconditional friendship, love, and happiness, you have set an example for us all. So go, my friend, go in peace knowing that you are loved, and keep with you the happiness that you have found in YOUR true love, and know that one day, together, we will rejoice in that again.” But Jay was sobbing by the end. “You will always be my rock. I love you, Anthony.” I stand to give Jay a hug. I turned to your mother, and she placed her hand on my shoulder with her wet handkerchief. Her voice is dry and shaky. “That was beautiful.” We look at the floor and we don’t speak. We hold hands and we breathe and we think.

Zach was now standing at the podium reading, “You’re probably sitting there wondering why I’ve worn a pink shirt to Anthony’s memorial service, so let me just put the rumor to rest that I have shockingly bad taste.” Zach had the church laughing. “I was talking with friends the day Anthony passed and it was noted that I had a touch of pink on my shirt. I mused that I wasn’t willing to go much further into pink-wearing territory. The right opportunity to wear pink hadn’t quite presented itself yet. Maybe five hours later, Chas was recounting the wedding in all its beautiful details. As was always the case, Anthony had taken great care in making sure his clothes were all dialed in. He had decided to wear a pink shirt, because he ‘didn’t want to wear white.’ Well, I for one took that as a sign. Antone, always a guru of fashion, wasn’t going to let me neglect such a stylish section of the color palette. So, Tony, this one’s for you…”

I was smiling at Zach, so thankful that he was reading and we were laughing and my dad was no longer crying. Zach had this way of making me forget things like the past or the future or the laundry I left in the washer. I always got caught up in listening to his stories, using words like level-headed and cool. I know that I’ve met new people, made new friends, but I am starting to think Zach was heaven-sent. He understood us, shared in our joys and pains. He was a part of our story.

“As Anthony and Chas,” Zach resumed, “ started to date, I found myself witnessing the genesis of an amazing relationship. Chas and I had become friends after working on a terrible DVD project a few months back. Wouldn’t it just figure that my two closest friends at work would fall in love. Anticipating the future, I thought about getting the words ‘third wheel’ tattooed on my arm.

“I wish you all could know how sweet and beautiful their courtship was. I found myself taking notes on the way they treated each other. If I were to use just half of the things Anthony did, I could write a best-selling how-to book on making a girl fall head over heels. I watched them operate and I thought, that is what love is. That’s what I want for myself one day.”

Each eulogy was a mirror of the reader. Your parents and I agreed on who would deliver them. We asked each person individually. Each accepted it as a great honor. Every eulogy wanted to make you proud: Jay, Zach, a childhood friend, your brother, and I. We listened to the stories and imagined what your life was all about. We learned. We remembered. We wanted someone to tell us that your life meant something, that all of us meant something. Each eulogy gave us the chance to focus on the you we all loved, the whole you: your strengths, your joys, challenges and achievements.

“I have tried more than once to prepare myself for this day,” Zach continued. “I have been overcome with sadness the last few months, and I didn’t think I would know how to handle this. But I find myself thinking now that I’ll always have Anthony with me, because I am always thinking, ‘What would he do here, or what would he say?’ I can hear him telling me to pump the brakes when I’m doing something dumb. I can hear him telling me to rally when I’m moping around. When something goes wrong, I can hear his one-word sympathy, suck, that somehow means so much. And as I look around the room, every one of your faces reminds me of him. I’ve been so scared of what life would be like without him, but I realize now that he’s always with me, and it makes me feel like I can one day be the man, friend, and husband that he was.”

It was a blur of words, a daze of sentiments. I was mixed up with emotions, feeling human and in need of God. I looked inside myself trying to find a way to trust God again. Collecting my sadness, I closed my eyes. I was mad at God for leaving me behind. Yet I prayed anyway and prayed honestly.
Poppy, give me strength.
I took a deep breath. Amen. Then shuffled my way to the front of the church.

“Most of you know Anthony was an amazing writer. He was a great kisser too, but that’s not what I’m here to tell you about.” The church giggled. “I’m going to read an e-mail he wrote me at a time in my life when I needed answers. He was such an amazing writer. His words could save you. His words could wrap themselves around you and protect you. You could fall in love with his words. I did. Okay, maybe it helped he was a good kisser…” The church giggled again. “I wanted to share with you an e-mail he wrote me exactly a year ago from the day he passed. I went to his e-mails looking for signs and reassurance, to know that I would be all right. To look for an answer in all of this. I’m sorry if I choke on his words…” I turn to Laura, “And I am sorry I am about to swear in church.” I can hear Jay laugh, or cry.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Wednesday, July 27, 10:22 a.m.
Subject:
i couldn’t attach the song i wanted to send with this…

and that sucks because it was perfect

i am scared

of being scared…

and so,

i am not.

even if i am.

for too much of my life,

at the worst times, some random times

and inevitably embarrassing times,

my hands have shaken…

despite me.

my efforts to focus.

calm.

steady…

FUCK!

and it is a sad betrayal

when your body gives up your mind,

shows that which you would conceal,

that which you cannot…

but something good

has come out of it…

and that is,

i know i still must act.

must push through it,

must do whatever it is.

fear is familiar.

and so,

when it comes

i know what to do.

“my fear is my only courage

so i have to push on through…”

— bob marley

i know…

i can’t believe i just quoted bob marley either,

but it came to mind,

and even if i sound like

a college freshman…

it helps the point.

despite your efforts

to illustrate the contrary,

i don’t think you are fearful.

i think you are bold.

and i think you are beautiful.

i think you are bold and beautiful.

(oh christ, i’m losing it…)

but there is something inside of you,

something i have seen:

a strength. steadiness. courage.

as opaque as you are.

it is easy to see.

perhaps you are scared now,

frozen by the fear you feel

because you don’t know

how to handle it…

fear is not familiar for you.

we are defined by

who we are in crisis…

you are overwhelmed.

so quit your fucking whining

and do something about it.

something amazing.

because that is who you are.

that is what i see.