even if i am. (11 page)

chapter twenty-three

be mine

Friday, October 21

the first post.

This was the photograph Anthony attached to his first blog post.

this could be the beginning, or possibly the end.

posted by Anthony Glass at 9:54 a.m.

This was the first post to your blog. It was such a simple sentence. I didn’t understand what you were going through, I certainly tried, but I didn’t. I could only tell from an outside perspective the effects cancer had on you. Your blog described your cancer better than anyone could. It was a brilliant idea, the perfect outlet. A place for you to freely write out your tears. You told me you felt better for having expressed yourself, rather than trying to shunt your self-expression into unsatisfying conversations with friends and family. On your blog, you swore, threatened and raged about cancer. The world could read your clinical process chart on coping: at first anguish and confusion. Next anger and resolution, then comedy, tragedy, hope and despair. It was all there. If anyone wanted to know how you were doing, all we had to do was click and read.

Friday, October 22

(this was written on the 18th)

it wasn’t a long day, per se

but it’s getting late,

and a long pull from a tall bottle of beer

slows my mind enough that i can discard the to-do lists.

what was done and what was forgotten,

and just let myself appreciate the day

for what it was and what it wasn’t.

so often i am on the verge of easing,

but the small splinters jab just enough.

is it possible to be organized and together

without being a complete tightass?

working on it.

answers pending.

doctors.

assistants.

bureaucracy.

forms.

rules.

body.

health.

mind.

tumor.

blood.

organs.

fuck.

i’ve never been good at games,

bending when the rules let them.

and why am i the one that has to keep calling them?

keep pushing them, organizing them, fighting for my health?

this isn’t the way it should be.

they should be coming to me,

calling me to remind me, ask me,

help me, fucking fuck them.

i’ll fucking do it.

keep me conscious during the surgery,

so i can keep an eye on the fuckers even then.

such.

bullshit.

but why would it be any different?

cancer didn’t make me grow wings out of my back.

why would it make the health care system

suddenly efficient and simple?

alright.

enough rant.

posted by Anthony Glass at 9:54 a.m.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Tuesday, October 18, 10:12 a.m.
Subject:
a blog

I read your blog this morning…

it is so incredibly

intimate

sincere

sweet

tender

and

heartfelt.

"Be Mine"
R.E.M.

Anthony, reading your words, I wanted to smother you with kisses and ask you to never leave me. I wanted to marry you right then and have a dozen children starting that afternoon. I did. I wanted to. I wanted to
comb the tar out of your feathers; pluck the thorns out of your feet.
I wanted to love you like a revolution, and you to love me equally.
If you made me your religion, I’d give you all you need. I’d be the drawing of your breath, the cup if you should bleed. I’d be the lights that guide you inland. You and me.

I wanted to find you right then. To rub your face, look you in the eyes and tell you just how much I love you. I wished I could have done more to help — wished I could take away your pain. I wished I was the one with cancer. I know, I know. But, I did. I wished I were the one fighting. I loved you so much; I was scared to tell you how much. Instead, I told you, “Your blog is beautiful. It helps us understand.”

chapter twenty-four

naked as we came

Every part of us thought about, stressed about, and argued about cancer. There was a lot to plan, a lot going on, making the circumstances delicate. The closer to surgery and the more medications you took, our sex became, well, awkward. It was awkward, right? I don’t know how someone fights about sex; maybe all couples fight about sex, but during sex? We managed to find a motive.

Even now, it hurts in new and varied ways. Maybe you felt defeated and needed someone to blame. I’d like to think it was your belly full of chemo, and not my fault. I wasn’t in the mood for sex that night. You pushed me at my worst, sometimes. I’m not blaming you. Okay, maybe a little, but I had a hundred things on my mind. Work was busy as ever. I hadn’t called my family in weeks. We had another big CAT scan that afternoon, a thousand things were going through my mind, but you persisted, pushed. “No and no.” It didn’t help that I said it through a giggle as you kissed my neck. You knew how to turn my no’s into yes’s. Your lips on my skin were a weakness. We kissed as my legs wrapped around you like twine. Then it happened. My mind shifted back to the thoughts stirring inside.

“Ouch. Sorry, but you’re pulling my hair.”

Instantly you struggled. “Would you focus on me?”

“I am. But, my hair was under…” You’re right. I wasn’t focusing on you. I couldn’t get in the mood no matter where you kissed. I tried. I did, I swear. But a million little thoughts got in the way.

“This is too much work.” I knew that tone. Irritated, you rolled off of me. “You make me jump through hoops to get you in the mood. And you smell funny. Did you even shower today?”

“Okay, now you’re just being a jerk. Did I shower today? Asshole.”

I got up from the bed and put my shirt on as you looked for your pants, complaining about our sex life. Listing all the things I’d done wrong until that point. I equal parts loved you and couldn’t stand you.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Wednesday, October 26, 11:46 a.m.
Subject:
hurt

last night’s conversation hurt, bad…

and it wasn’t so much what you said,

it hurt because I think it’s not me you love,

but merely the idea of me you love.

Since the day we started this relationship you have tried to modify me into a version of someone you preferred. Contacts over glasses, express more, don’t flirt too much, don’t hang out with. After last night’s conversation, I realized that I can NEVER be the girl you’re wanting me to be. I have flaws and faults that define who I am, things you will love and hate; more importantly, things that I cannot or do not want to change.

Last night I felt as if you had blamed me for our fighting, and then if blaming me wasn’t enough, you began to list things wrong with me sexually. I don’t express myself, I don’t tell you how I like it, or what turns me on, I push and pull, I don’t pay enough attention, I never initiate… I smell?

NEVER have I felt this insecure about my actions.

NEVER have I felt uncomfortable in my own skin.

NEVER have I second guessed my self-worth, who I am, or what fucking shoes am I gonna wear…

this is not me, and it feels gross.

I can’t keep hurting like this.

I can’t keep questioning myself and my actions.

Maybe we are putting too much on this relationship because we are so emotionally invested. Maybe we both desperately want that perfect relationship and commitment, and maybe, just maybe, neither of us are willing to admit that “we” aren’t the right match.

I wish I knew the answers,

I wish I could be the girl you needed me to be.

I wish for a lot of things…

but I don’t wish to feel like this anymore.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Wednesday, October 26, 2:23 p.m.
Subject:
Re: hurt

i love you.*

*although a simple statement, it seems there are a number of ways this can be interpreted, distorted, feared, and even mutilated. my love for you is simple. it does not come with the expectations that you are “the one,” with a prescribed order of physical and personality traits you must be trained to have in order to fulfill this persona. that’s bullshit. my love for you is simple. it is for you.

we have many differences, basic things about us.

at times it seems they will be our undoing.

times like these.

the thought of it makes me sick,

but what are we doing?

i can’t believe it was only yesterday

that you were here in my office,

our arms wrapped around each other,

and i felt like i was going to jump out of my body

just to get a little bit closer to you.

and here we are?

i understand what you feel

when you say you’re tired,

because it’s fucking exhausting.

all morning i’ve been writing this,

and my feelings are all over the place.

but beneath it all, i can’t imagine

not being with you, and giving up.

i know you’re feeling right now

that perhaps that’s the best thing,

and maybe you’re right.

i really don’t know.

i do recognize that i am

a hippopotamus trying to do ballet

when it comes to being tactful or delicate,

but if you smell funny,

i want to fucking tell you. that’s intimacy.

tell me my dick is crooked. it is.

too much writing.

too much thinking.

sending this now because it’s taken too long,

and i know you’re waiting for it.

…

I blame Snow White. Yep, Snow White. She made love seem easy. She wished in a well for the one she loved to find her; and then there he was, a dashing prince galloping in on a white horse. They hardly exchanged two words. I think: Just wait, honey. Just wait until you fight over chores, awkward sex, meeting parents or cancer. Snow White, you know nothing about love.

Yet, I listened. I believed in once-upon-a-times and happily-ever-afters. Because of Snow White I got my heart broken. Over and over. I kept thinking, he’s coming, my happily-ever-after. Just wish into the goddamn well. I waited for him. I waited for him at a seventh grade dance, then again in homeroom, in college studying art, at the bar sipping a PBR, the grocery store buying two-ply toilet paper… I eventually found him — three times, actually. The truth was disappointing, yet I refused to give up on the fairytale.

“I’m not done loving you,” I e-mailed back.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Thursday, October 27, 10:59 a.m.
Subject:
never be done

let’s have dinner

just the two of us tonight.

well, three of us if you count gladys…

do you want to help me come up with

questions to ask the surgeon tomorrow?

some possibilities:

will anthony be as much of an asshole

after surgery as he is right now?

think about it.

"Naked As We Came"
Iron and Wine