even if i am. (29 page)

I wished that time moved backward. That you were born with cancer and died in the womb. I wished we were there right now playing ring-around-the-rosie. I wished that the wheels spun in reverse. That the earth sucked the tomatoes we planted out of the air, back into their stem pulling them back into a seed of a ripe red tomato. That we were drunk then sober. Had dessert before dinner. That we read last chapters before firsts. That timelines were beginnings and not endings.

“You’re the most beautiful, courageous person I know. And everything you’ve done for me has been remarkable and stunning. I don’t tell you often enough, but I think you’re amazing and I am thankful for every moment we have together, no matter how beautiful or trivial…” You became speechless and your lack of words wrung tears out of us both.

“I love you more,” I managed to say. I wanted to reach into time and go back to the beginning, go back to the copy machine incident. I prayed to God as if I were God. I prayed that my embrace would repair you. Prayed that disease would leave you and enter me. Prayed that I could die for you, or at the very least, die with you. I prayed I too was dying.

I prayed that I was powerful enough to heal you with the words
I love you
, and so I said it again with complete conviction. You answered, “I love you more.”

I held your face to mine. I wanted you to see my words. “Babe, I know you love me. But, if there is ever a day I forget, will you come back to remind me?” Your eyes were sleepy, your head heavy. Crying was exhausting.

“Yes. I will always remind you, because I fucking love you.” You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, tears streaming down both cheeks.

“I think it’s time for us to head back,” I said softly.

“No, not yet, fifteen more minutes.”

We nuzzled our cheeks and eyes, kissing chins and jawbones and necks. “There is something I need to ask you. But not here. Promise me we’ll go out to dinner for your birthday when we get home.”

“I promise.”

chapter forty-seven

jet engine noises

Your stepfather arrived at our house soon after the news. He set up hospice. Everything was in place by the time we checked out of the hospital. Machines littered our home: oxygen tanks, blood pressure sleeves, stainless steel dishes, trash cans, antibacterial soap, stethoscopes, penlights, digital thermometers, bedpans, commodes. There were nurses, around-the-clock staff, a case manager and a nervous Gladys to welcome us. The nurses wheeled you from the car to the steps of our front door, and when everyone tried to carry you up three stairs, you stopped them. You stood. You wobbled, stared at the stairs and took a deep breath before walking up the steps, through the entrance, and onto the couch. I know it wasn’t right to be so proud of you in that moment, but it was all I had.

We assumed our roles as if it was another normal, everyday afternoon. Your mother made up the twin hospital bed installed in our bedroom next to our queen. You turned on the television. Your stepfather started cooking dinner. I fed Gladys. The nurse took your temperature. This didn’t feel like home anymore.

…

That night, and every night after, I couldn’t sleep. Your bed kept filling with air and slowly releasing it. I swear it was powered by an engine, a loud jet engine flying through our bedroom. I could hear your stepfather snoring in the night, or maybe it was Gladys. I started doing sit-ups in bed, tiring myself out so I could rest. Every sense around me had changed: sight, sound, smell, touch, taste. My blankets were heavy and I was afraid of the dark — afraid that you would abandon me in it. Life has a way of feeling worse in the middle of the night. I held onto the words you spoke earlier: “I don’t want you to be alone. If anything should happen to me, I don’t want you to be alone.”

I wanted to kick your stupid jet engine.
How can you sleep through that noise?
I wanted the warmth of your arm over my shoulders, not this scratchy quilt. You were so far away, miles away. “In another bed” might as well have been another house, another state.

Here’s the strange thing, what kept me awake for most of the night — I literally felt you moving closer to heaven. I can’t quiet explain it. I just did. I felt you sacrificing life, leaving everything behind. I remember sitting up to examine you, making sure you were still breathing. I watched the transformation of acceptance, of understanding, in the rise and fall of your chest, your half-opened eyes, the curve of your lips in a crescent moon.

“I’ll let you hold me if you want to. Do you want to hold me?” You didn’t respond. So, I pulled the covers over my head. There was this sense of wonderment at the terrible, grotesque and sublimely beautiful shift that was happening all around me in our bedroom.
I decided there was only one thing left worth hoping for. Under the covers I prayed aloud, “If you must take him, Poppy, take him soon, take him now when he’s sleeping. Take him with grace, and absolute love.”

I inhaled and held my breath to listen. It was quiet, too quiet. I peeked over the edge of the blankets, sat up, looked at you. Panic set in when I didn’t see your chest fill. I nervously reached for your hand to see if you were still with me, and checked for a pulse. I see the curve of your lips widen, holding back a smile.

“Tell Poppy I’m not ready to go yet.”

I threw a pillow at you, “You’re such an asshole.”

You laughed. “Go to bed. I can’t sleep with you praying so loud…”

I threw another pillow at you.

chapter forty-eight

hold you forever

Loving someone with cancer does strange things to time. It moves so fast and so slow. On one hand, it seems like yesterday that you were helping me load the dishwasher, bending down to hand me glass after glass to return to the cabinet. We were carefree and it felt as if we could live in that moment for a long, long time. And then time quickened: I woke up and, just like that, everything was different. I had to help you dress because you were too weak to do it yourself. We fit each arm in its sleeve, a slow, agonizing process. It fit you differently now; everything had changed, and it seemed unreasonable to me that it was the same shirt.

…

“Whatcha guys talking about?”

Your mother smiled. “Anthony wants to ask you something…”

“Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

“Is that the secret you two have been discussing?” You and your mother said yes in unison.

I’m not sure what made me so nervous. I think it was a mixture of fear and time passing and excitement and wondering why you were having secret conversations with your mother. There was no reason to be anxious about a birthday dinner. Yet, I had this jumpy energy dancing inside. I knew from your stepfather’s cooking all afternoon and your mother’s detailed decorating of our patio table that this was meant to be a special dinner. I felt even more timid after your mother requested that I wear the sundress you bought me for my birthday.

“He hasn’t seen you in it. I think he’d like that very much.”

My heartbeat grew louder as I dressed. Your parents made me wait in the bathroom to put the finishing touches on the evening. I could hear dishes rattling in the sink and mumbled conversations. Your stepfather came to the bathroom door and knocked.

“Hello, Miss?”

I opened the door, completely confused.

“Hello. The gentleman you are meeting for dinner tonight is right this way. Sorry to keep you waiting. Did you have a hard time finding the restaurant?” I laughed at how sweet your stepfather looked in his apron as he offered me his arm as an escort to our reserved table.

“Yes, yes. This restaurant was impossible to find.” I giggled. “There’s not even a sign out front — so like Los Angeles.” I blushed when I saw you. “You are a sneaky one aren’t you.” I shook my head as you stood to kiss me hello.

Your mother approached the table, a towel draped over her arm, offered us a glass of wine. “My name is Nancy, and I’ll be your waitress for the evening.” Delighted, we grinned at each other as she informed us what was on the menu.

There were flickering candles through our yard and around the patio. As if fireflies were blinking and swaying and flittering. Not the slightest breeze to ruffle a leaf, or sway a strand of hair — only temperature and flickering fireflies of candlelight and stillness. There was music, though. Ray Lamontagne serenaded the moon.
I could hold you in my arms forever.
The melody caressed the moment, following the shape of it.

Your mother returned with plates of food and told us to enjoy. We both glanced at the food, grabbed for our utensils and started eating. You had a few bites, then turned to face me. “I can’t eat.” You looked down at your food and then back up at me. Puzzled, I put my fork down.

“You’re the answer.” You paused, then grabbed my hands and held them in your lap. I could feel you shaking. “You are my answer to all the questions I have.” You stumbled over your words. “I think a lot of times my relationships were about trying to figure out myself, and the other person in my life — who that’s going to be and how they’re going to fit… but you, you fit that perfectly.”

You leaned into my smile with little whispers and nudges and kisses. The music danced its way into my lungs, filling me with the importance of the moment. You were tender and huggable, squeezing my fingers tight. It was only you, me, and the melody.
I could hold you in my arms forever.
Forever, for us, was right then.

“Chas,” you exhaled, “to have you as my wife, if only for a day, means everything to me. Will you marry me?”

chapter forty-nine

church bells

Your stepfather called the Episcopal church to arrange a meeting at our house later that afternoon with Laura, the recommended Reverend for the ceremony. Your mother and I planned to shop for wedding rings at the antique jewelry dealer next to the church.

The store was filled with dozens and dozen of antique rings. Each having a past and a story and a love attached to it. I kept wondering how they ended up here. Your mother and I made up stories for each ring we tried on.

I must have scrutinized a hundred, before I picked three. I never thought I’d have a proper wedding ring. I’m one of those girls who likes turquoise or something different. Something unique, not traditional. We never talked about what kind of ring I wanted. I think girls think they aren’t the diamond ring types until they put on a diamond. I was a diamond girl. Your mother was busy sharing our love story with the salesclerk, as I kept staring at the diamond on my hand, listening to her version of our love. I have a diamond ring on my finger. I’m engaged. The sales clerk handed us three rings to take home for you to choose which one to place on my finger.

…

“Hello, pleasure to meet you.” I shook Laura’s hand and stared at the streak of hot pink dye in her short, choppy haircut. She was dressed in a black shirt with a clerical collar and jeans. I thought she looked kind of edgy for clergy. She was round and witty. Your voice was faint, but you had this vitality as you told her about our plans.

“We’d like to get married under the tree.” You shuffled to the backyard to show her.

“What a beautiful garden.” She scanned the backyard as Gladys nuzzled her head under her hand. Laura scratched her ear. Your mother, stepfather, all of us stood under the elm.

“What days are you available?” Your mother inquired.

“Well, my schedule is rather busy. I do have an opening two weeks from Saturday.” We all nodded.

“That would give us a little more time to plan,” your mother replied.

Laura watched you contemplating the tree with a grin.

“What are you thinking about, babe?” I asked.

“I think it is going to be an absolutely beautiful wedding. Gladys will be the ring-bearer.” She wiggled hearing her name. You reached for my hand to hold it as Gladys stood between us.

Laura contemplated our hands held, then Gladys. She looked back and forth between all of us who were still looking up at a tree. “You know, I could also do it tomorrow. I have the day off…”

Gladys wagged her tail frantically.

“We’d like that.” You responded looking at me, squeezing my hand tighter.

…

“You’re getting married tomorrow!” April, our hospice case manager, hugged me in congratulations. I think hugging was part of her job description and she was very good at her job.

“I know. Crazy right?”

“Not crazy. I think it’s perfect.” She hugged me again. “Since we met, I’ve been thinking of you and Anthony every day. I can’t stop thinking about your love. I’ve been a case manager for hospice for a long, long time and I have never witnessed such love, such sacrifice. You may not believe this, but your love is absolutely inspiring. You are a brave soul, my friend.”

“Thank you.”

“No, I should be thanking you for the honor and opportunity to share in your love and to care for Anthony. My heart goes out to you.
He is a remarkable man.”

I looked to the bedroom door you are sleeping behind. “He is, isn’t he?”

“And you’re a remarkable woman. You carry yourself with such grace and love that I can only offer you tears of absolute joy on your wedding day.”

She wept. This time I hugged her.

“Are you going to have a reception?” She wiped away her tears.

“Yeah, maybe. I’d like that.”

…

I called my parents that night. I told them about the proposal. I told them about the timeline. I told them I was getting married in the morning. My mom was upset. My dad, confused. Both understood, and both were disappointed they weren’t going to be part of my wedding day. It broke my heart, but not nearly as much as it broke theirs.

…

“What did they say?” Your mother asked woefully.

“They’re disappointed, but I think they understand the circumstances.” I answered directly even though her question made me sad. “I just wish I could share it with my mom. I wish my dad could walk me down the aisle. I guess it’s sorta like eloping? I have everything I need right here. As long as Anthony shows up…” We both giggle a little. “I have a favor to ask you.”

“Sure.”

“What do you think about having a reception tomorrow night? Something small, not too fancy. We could invite people to the house for cake and champagne. It will give Anthony the chance to see his friends. Everyone keeps calling and I know they would like to see him. I’d like to share tomorrow with them. We should celebrate our wedding.”

“I think it is a perfect idea. I’ll go to the store tonight and get everything we’ll need. Maybe we can decorate some, too.”

I’m not sure what I would have done without your mother. I reached for her hand and held it. “I’m getting married tomorrow.” I said it out loud to believe it.