Single Player: Humor, Love, Breast Cancer and a Gaming Girl... (28 page)

“I’m so sorry… I let you down. I shouldn’t have let you run out. I should have stopped you. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.” There is so much blood pooling on the ground beneath him. His heavy, labored panting is a sign that it’s not going to be much longer now. Oh GOD, Pleasepleasepleaseplease! He’s struggling to pull in even the simplest of breaths so I do the only thing I can and continue to encourage him “It’s going to be okay. Just breathe. Just breathe, Buddy,” I say as I scratch softly behind his ear connecting with his most favorite spot. 

We sit for what feels like hours but in reality it’s only been a couple long, horrifying minutes. The truth is, he’s not going to make it. I know it, the guy who hit him knows it and Master knows it. In the distance I finally hear the ambulance, but it’s going to be too late. I can feel it. I just know. Master is looking up at me with his big, beautiful doggy eyes, wanting me to see how he feels through them.  What he’s saying comes through loud and clear. I love you. I love you. I love you. I stare him in the eyes and repeat aloud for him to hear, “I love you. I love you. I love you.” 

His lids begin a slow and steady open and shut, his breathing is down to a whisper. What am I going to do?  Who am I going to love? My hands continue assaulting his face one pass at a time as his body begins to tremble. 

With the sound of the siren screaming down the road behind me I pull out my phone and find our song. We need it. We need him. We need his voice. We need his music. We will use it this One. Last. Time. 

We will say our goodbyes together.

His head gets heavier, his breathing slows and with my terrible voice singing along in his ear, he closes his eyes forever. 

“I’ll tell him you love him. I’ll tell him.”

One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand… Blackbird fly…. Blackbird fly… Into the light of the dark black night.

twenty

It’s so dark. It’s so quiet. The only noises I hear as I lay in my cold, lonely bed are the innocuous ones that my body refuses to stop making, regardless of the indifference I feel to its life. The loudest - by a mile - is breathe. The sound reminds me of the breaking waves as they predictably come ashore only to rush back out again a moment later, unknowingly stealing all of the screaming children’s toys and dreams.

Just beneath my breath is the slow and steady beat of my heart. It serves as a quiet reminder that I am still me and I am still alive, whether I wish to be or not. If I could, I’d turn them both off. I’d choose quiet, peace. If all I had to do was flip a switch, I’d flip it. I’d have done it before.  But since there is no magical lever, I am yet again stuck, forced to survive carrying along yet another new and unthinkable pain.

I lay here, my mind thinking in circles, in spheres, in the shape of Master’s favorite tennis ball and I’m amazed at what the human body can tolerate. The kind of punishment it will accept on behalf of its bereaved owner even while the mind refuses to accept the new reality it’s being forced to face. The body, however, never acquiesces. It will fight for your life even when you no longer believe you can. That, my friends, is the miracle of life. That is the soul’s very own show of determination at work.

People have come and gone over the last several days. I can hear them. I can see them. I may have even talked to them as food was brought to me and then dutifully taken away when I finished. My laundry has been washed and then put away. I thanked, I welcomed. I have been walked from the bed to the couch and then back to bed again. TV on…TV off. Games on… games off. I have been with friends and I have been friendless. Liddy even helped me shower when apparently I smelled, her words, “like ass.”  Yet, through all the noise I feel… forsaken.

Day seven with no Master. Day seven with no doggy kisses received, no pee-mail returned, no treats given.  We’ve all heard the bible story, ‘and on the seventh day God blessed it, he sanctified it and he rested’. Well, I’m resting. I’m sanctifying. I’m blessing (if blessing is being stinky then I am doing some MAD blessing). So who thinks they have the right to come in here and push me around on the sanctified day? Who dare disturb the SEVENTH DAY?!?! Mr. Know-It-All Small, that’s who!

The front door unlocks and I lay and await my daily admonishment from either Liddy or Connor. Each day that I spend wasting away in my bed their frustration with me and my withdrawal grows stronger. And then, in response to their frustration, as if I’m a turtle sliding back into its shell, my withdrawal goes deeper. It’s a terrible cycle that Connor and I are all too familiar with but one I’m hell bent on repeating nonetheless.

Until today happens. We’ll call it the day that I’m rudely and forcefully shoved from my cozy and comfy stupor. Well, technically I’m not really shoved from the stupor. More accurately, I’m doused from it because Chris has suddenly decided that he’d like in on the action.

“GET UP!” Roar. SPLASH! SURPRISE! SOAK! 

“NO MORE!” More roaring. “I will NOT stand by and watch this go down! UP YOU GO!” He’s manhandling me.  Is this legal? Call the cops! My doctor’s breaking his Hippocratic Oath! I’m being water-boarded by my doctor!  Someone! ANYONE! HELP ME! Sputter sounds are all I can make as I wipe the remnants of one gigantic bucketful of water from my face. 

“HOW DID YOU GET IN HERE?!” I’m so killing someone for this.
I
took NO oath!

“Your brother loves you, you nit-wit. Don’t ask stupid questions, you’re smarter than that.” Oh, he’s so getting kicked in the shins for this one. I’m going playground style on his ass!

“Well. You can tell him it was a waste of time. All you’ve done is cleaned me up for the day. So, I thank you.”  My politeness does not go over well. See? Look right there. Those are angry crinkles you see at the corners of each of his eyes.  He’s pissed.

“Funny. Get dressed. Here,” he seethes as he shoves a pair of running shoes and a pile of clothes into my hands, none of which I recognize as my own. “We’re going out.  You have five minutes.” 

The door slams behind him and I’m standing alone in my room wondering who won the fight when I hear him stomping around in the kitchen making me my morning coffee. Damn him and his water boarding mixed with kindness. I’m so confused. 

I don’t even look at what I’m wearing because, frankly, I don’t give a damn. I’m tying the shoes up as he comes through the door (without knocking!) and hands me the coffee.

“Drink this. We need to leave.” Wow, shocking, no please from MrNoManners@all!             

Several piping hot swallows later I’m being forced through the doorway like a toddler being taken against her will for shots. As soon as my feet hit the porch a familiar stirring begins and I start to immediately freeze up. My fingers are numb and tingly, I can no longer feel my toes and I’m pretty sure the barfing is imminent.

“I can’t. Please, listen. I’m not the strong person you think I am. I’m just not. I’m a hide-under-the-covers type of girl. A there’s-no-shame-in-quitting kind of person.  A…a... ‘if it doesn’t work, no problem, move on’ kind of gal. Please just let me hide in peace. Let me be the failure I’m destined to be…”

I plop right down on the ground and our relationship has just come full circle. This is a very de-ja- vu-y kind of moment for the two of us. It’s how we first met, me cowering on the porch, him standing on the walkway.  This is irony in action, irony if it were a verb.

“If I have to pick you up and throw you over my shoulder I’ll do it.” We are having one hell of a glare off.  It’s obvious he’s in it to win it but, so am I. My resolve can sometimes get me into trouble, as I suspect it’s about to now. I make a harrumph noise and bear down even further into my sitting position, adding a pair of crossed arms to make my intentions crystal clear.

“Okay. So the hard way it is. No problem.” He marches over, picks me up under the arms and tosses me over his thick shoulder as if I’m a singular sandbag being passed along in a hurricane-relief assembly line.             

This is when my maturity raises its lovely head and I shout, “NONONONONONONONONO!” as one long continuous string of words. If I had been on my own two feet you can bet your bottom dollar there would have been a whole lot of foot stomping accompanying that rant to make my point even stronger. Instead, I just bang my fists against his butt repeatedly. His stupid, tight butt!

I’m tossed into the backseat of his Audi (snob) and from the passenger seat Angela greets me sounding all pretty and Britishy, “Morning darling.”

“HA!” I could give the super nanny a run for her money this morning. Those Brit’s think they corner the market on fixing people. PA-SHAW!

“Ignore her. She’s having a morning.” Mr. McDoctor face says to his British freak of nature like I’m not even here, in the back of his stupid, dumb, waste-of-money, rich kid car. Man, I am on a roll.

We drive off and I refuse to acknowledge either of their existences. This is kidnapping and I’m turning their butts into the authorities whenever we get to wherever it is we’re going. Oh deportation… oops, SORRY Angela!  Angry Cecilia is awake and she’s accepted the lead role of crazy bitch.

Twenty minutes later we pull into the cancer center parking lot where I’m faced with a sea of people. There must be thousands and they’re all wearing the same shirt, which just so happens to be the one I’m wearing. That’s when the light flicks on in my tiny, self-absorbed brain and I figure out what it is we’re doing. We’re here for the yearly breast cancer walk that I’ve always wanted to do but never had the courage to face. 

The shrink in the car knew that this would work, that I’d face my pain this way because I’d do anything for my father, anything; even this, even now. He’s simply reminding me of the promise I recently made him in therapy to always fight for my life. Fight to be better than my mom. Fight the anxiety that will always live dormant within me, ready to take me down when life gets tough, because it’s going to get tough. Fight! Fight for my dad because he no longer can. JUST FIGHT! 

At first my tears are quiet; I’m even unaware of them falling. But soon they turn riotous, rowdy and loud. These are the only tears I can remember crying over the last week. The others that may have fallen were just my body leaking them from me in the agony my mind was trying so desperately to avoid. These are the tears I need to cry for Master. They are my love for him in liquid form, my desperation for him to return, my fear of always being alone, they are the ice that was forming around my heart, melting away through my eyes. Hot, melty, red and angry.

After several minutes of this headache-inducing snot fest, I speak up as soon as the hiccupping slows, “What am I (hiccup) going (hiccup) to do? (sniffle, sniffle)  I’m so sad (hiccup, sniffle),” Angela hands me a tissue, “I’m so broken.” Hiccup, hiccup, sniffle, sniffle.

“You are going to blow your nose,” Chris nods to the offensive mucus holder, “get out of my car (snobby car).  And go for a walk with all of these lovely people. Then tonight you are coming to stay with Angela and me at my place for a few days and you’re going to let us take care of you. Help you. Like friends do.” 

“Okay,” I whisper from the back because I know I need to be taken care of, otherwise the loneliness will get the best of me and I’ll become a sunken ship again. The titanic will be an easy find compared to the hiding tricks I’m prepared to pull. 

“Hey? By any chance did you happen to pick up my phone? I need it.” I say through the tissue that’s collecting my excess of mucus. I know, gross right?

“Yes. I would’ve given it to you earlier, but I was kind of afraid you would use it as a weapon and lob it at my head when I was driving, sorry,” he looks over his shoulder and hands me the phone with a smirk on his gorgeous face.

“You know me better than I thought. Very wise decision.” I grab it from his warm hands and before I have a chance to pull away he takes a hold of my wrist.

“You’re going to be all right. I know it and you will know it soon. Just let the people you love and who love you in return, back in. Let us be there for you. Let us help you.”

When he finishes I blow him a snotty kiss and he lets my hand go and then the three of us pile out of the car into the beautiful, sunshiny day. It seems wrong that the sun would shine on a day like today. It should know what happened to Master and be in mourning as well but, it’s not. The world proves to go on twirling no matter the heart ache that circles around with it.

We arrive in time to sign in and walk around for about fifteen minutes before the race is set to begin. Heading in the direction of the start/finish line I spot several tented booths with people showing and selling their wares.  Among them I spot a tiny little blond who just so happens to also be my business partner! 

“Liddy what is this?” I say looking at the table donning the largest smile my mouth is capable of spreading across my face.

“We’re going to do a line for breast cancer survivors. Don’t you love it?” In front of me are a selection of bra’s that will be made to order and they are for women who have had mastectomies or reconstruction surgery.

“When did you decide this? I love it. They’re beautiful!”  I run around the table and hug her petite body to my own tiny one. It’s the first time I’ve felt that I was still capable of feeling joy since Masters been gone. 

“Last weekend when Chris was telling us about the walk today it just sort of came to me. You were so down and I wanted so badly for you to remember what you’d accomplished, who’d you become. What you’d already endured and beaten. I guess you don’t remember when I mentioned it last week, but I did tell you.” She smiles sadly and I hug her even harder to me.

“I’m back. I’m sad, but I’m back and I’m going to fight through this. I love this idea and I would love to do some survivor art on the material. Make a sort of homage to the past and future breasts they’ve each been given.”

“Anything. We’re partners. If you want to make bra’s with handprints or nipples on the front we’ll do it.  Whatever, as long as I know you’re sticking with me you can be the creative director of PrettyPanties. Consider it done.”

“Where’s Connor? I would’ve thought he’d be out here enjoying the party with you,” I say looking around for him.

“He’s coming. He had a couple of things to pick up, no worries. You’re walking right?”

“Looks that way,” I say pointing to my shirt and sneakers.

“I want my sneakers back… oh, and my shorts.”  Sneaky.

“You’ll get them back,” I toss over my shoulder as I’m pulled away toward the starting line by Christian and Angela.

“See you after? Right here?” I holler as we work ourselves further into the crowd.

“Sure thing. Have fun!” I hear her shout, right before I lose sight of her.

Turns out the walk was just what the doctor ordered.  Literally. As soon as we finish, Angela and Chris go to “find some friends” (I predict that actually means, they’re going to go do “it” in his office) and they’re set to meet me back at the Bra booth shortly. Liddy and I are talking to a couple of women about our plans for their recently revamped chests when Connor finally decides to show his face. 

“A bit late aren’t you?” I ask with a smile.

“Nah. I never had plans to walk today, but I did get a lot done this morning with the house being so quiet.” Ew, burn on Liddy.