even if i am. (15 page)

and its so cliché i have to laugh a little,

because i have become a hallmark card.

It’s ten minutes since my victory lap around the fourth floor,

complete with high fives from the nurses

and goodbyes from the other patients,

thirty minutes since i was unplugged

from my last IV/attachment

and allowed to shower for the first time

since the morning of surgery,

six days since i entered this hospital

to live within its muted colors,

and it feels fucking great to finally be going home.

i walk to a nearby bench

to wait for chas to pull up the cruiser,

and sit with some effort,

finding a posture that seems more akin

to a zen buddhist than a cancer patient, but it works

and it gives me a moment to think about it all.

cancer.

surgery.

friends.

family.

life.

all the words and all the advice echo

and i remember this is far from the end,

that in fact, there is no end.

i had cancer. they cut it out.

but even if it’s not in me,

it will be a part of me.

other patients come in and out of the doors,

some sporting wheelchairs, others wearing obvious wigs.

this is my team?

can’t we re-pick?

posted by Anthony Glass at 2:35 p.m.

chapter thirty

details of the war

I created this romantic idea of us, very Air Supply soft rock ballad, all agony and angsty. “Making Love Out of Nothing at All.” I do that. When I meet someone, I create a story of what our life will be like together. It had a perfect beginning and a perfect end and it was beautiful. We were placed in treble clefs, sinking into the notes and simply letting go. There were no hospital beds or four-week recovery times, no swallowing pain medications or slathering ointments or guitar solos or drum machines. We were a love song, sweet as a melody. We were perfect instruments, strings flattering winds. We were perfect words, sung like poems. You had learned all the words to me, and I loved you like a favorite song.

Yet, I can’t remember how the song goes without cancer. It seems a thousand years since the news. Anthony, you were still you, and I was still me, and our lives were still our lives, and it was still a love song. But one day I woke up, and I didn’t recognize the tune. The beat wasn’t the same. We certainly weren’t the same song. I don’t know why, we just were different. There were scarred guitar solos. Jaded refrains. Diseased tempos. I wanted to pick up the song where we left off, a sweet soft ballad of love.

For some piece of mind I threw myself into routine, envious you got to stay home and rest. Though, I hadn’t made the connection that four-week’s recovery meant you at home. I left, fully expecting to see you at work.

…

Monday, November 28

monday monday

woke up at 7 a.m., showered/shaved,

got dressed like i had somewhere to go,

and then sat myself down at the computer.

starting today, i work for myself.

made my to-do list:

contact the bank and hospital,

file for disability,

finish writing appeal to blue cross.

okay.

so working for yourself sucks.

planning on being out of work for four weeks, maybe more.

three hours into it, and i’m already bored out of my skull.

adding to my to-do list: “find a side project.”

posted by Anthony Glass at 10:31 a.m.

…

I updated Kaethy, our boss, as vaguely as I could. “He’s doing pretty good. I mean we’ve had a couple of health issues, but — yeah, he’s doing well. He’s having difficultly sleeping throughout the night, a lot of backaches but other than that… He just wants to be healing faster, so it can be over and done with.” I wasn’t going to tell her about your health setbacks, the bathroom accidents, or the lack of sleep. I cushioned the details, not just for her, but to everyone who asked. Even your parents. I knew they’d want to hear positives.

“But he’s good. He’s really good. You should read his blog. It gives you an update on how he’s feeling.”

“I tried to read it. I can’t. It’s too raw and too sad. I’m sorry. I’d rather hear it from you — sort of a buffer of news.” Kaethy had become more of an older sister than a boss. You could feel it in her genuine concern and in her hugs. “I look forward to having him back at the office. I miss his smile. Everyone does.”

“Yeah, me too.”

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Tuesday, November 29, 4:30 p.m.
Subject:
plans

just got back

from sending off my disability application to the dr.

went to the grocery store to buy some wet ones and soft TP,

ended up buying a bunch of everything…

getting ready to make some eggs and hash browns

for lunch…

yum.

miss you,

looking forward to cuddling tonight.

I didn’t expect your body to go through cancer unchanged. I knew there would be physical scars, weight loss — all obvious changes I read about, but selfishly, I wanted you confident and aggressive. I wanted you sexy and always affectionate, the Anthony I knew you to be.

It was a challenge to stay physically connected. Not having sex didn’t make it any easier. It made you feel insecure. You joked, “What thirty-year-old is too sick for sex?” I never once thought that cancer would affect my sex life. That seems absurdly self-serving, but it was a topic of concern. I was reluctant to bring it up. Hey, it’s not like you brought it up, either, Anthony. I think we just both figured it would happen when it happened.

So, I stepped up my game. I needed to set the mood, set the stage. I lit a dozen candles. I cooked. Clearly I was up to something as I put on our favorite album, Ray Lamontange’s
Trouble
. I wanted to renew our connection with some romantic music, something flawless, something hypnotic. The music had you on your feet, and you gracefully grabbed my hand and slowly twirled me into an embrace. I don’t remember what song played. I can’t remember if I was singing or humming or swaying along with your body against mine. I don’t know if it was a sad song or one that made me want to turn up the volume as loud as it could go. There was music, though, and you were close enough to touch. That much I know.

“I miss feeling your body. I miss being close to you,” I said in the middle of the chorus, my face burrowed in your chest.

“I miss being inside you.” Your words tickled my neck. “Can you teach me again how you feel?”

I practically moaned.

You clutched my wrist, led me to the bedroom. Just breathe, I told myself. Breeeaaathe… I removed your clothes. Not fast. Not slow either. Then carefully slipped off my dress, letting it drop to the floor. Kissing the bare skin of your shoulder, you gently pushed me back onto the bed. I was speechless, arching to feel your body. I hesitated. I wondered if it was unhealthy if my body touched yours, your incision. I didn’t want to cause pain or discomfort or infection. I didn’t want to squish you or hurt you or rub too rough. You too hesitated, unsure of what move to make next, cautious of your bare skin touching my belly, your exposed scar laid carefully on top of me. Neither of us moved, afraid it might be injurious.

“If my senses fail, don’t be mad at me,” you whispered tenderly. “I just want to feel you again.”

My heart was temporarily suspended in the sentence as your fingers trailed from my brow around my cheek to my chin. We were completely connected, completely free.

“You feel perfect. Exactly as I remember.” My voice barely a whisper.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Wednesday, November 30, 7:00 p.m.
Subject:
feeling better

showered and dressed at your place,

decided to come home

and mail the doctor’s checks from home (don’t ask)

and i ate a couple bowls of cereal when i got here,

wrote the checks out and immediately felt like shit.

staggered to the post office

to send the envelopes out,

and then came home and passed out

for about four hours…

got up a little while ago,

feeling better,

still gross, but better,

and i’m getting my appetite back…

but what should i eat?

and that part of me that i was complaining about this morning

is still driving me fucking nuts!

It’s my upper left leg…

tingly pain… fuck!

sorry it took me so long to write,

but i hope you’re having a good day,

and not worrying about me too much…

it was a nice morning of cuddling,

and a good way to start a day

that just couldn’t quite keep up…

“Simply Beautiful”
Al Green

…

There’s no use in wondering why a bad day leads to a fight. You were discouraged and you didn’t want me to see that you were not improving anymore. You turned away, took the bad nights alone. You’d blow up over petty things, like whether I changed the toilet paper roll and how. I know your anger didn’t mean you no longer loved me. People are terrible to the ones they love sometimes. They’re mean for no reason at all. And for my part, I was mean. I yelled back.

“Change the goddamn roll yourself!”

I instantly regretted yelling, but it was already out of my mouth. Ours was not the worst relationship in the world. Other couples fight about stupid things, right? It’s just that we were all we had. We depended on each other, every moment of every day and we expected a lot. Worse, it was difficult to enjoy the moments in between the bickering and simply forget ourselves.

I kept trying to pick up the pieces, waiting for a hint of a spark of something outside of cancer.

“C’mon let’s go for a walk,” I said, pulling you off the couch.

“I am so fucking tired. I just want to go to bed.”

Regretting it before I even said it, “You know, I need you to rally for me, too. Not just for your family on the phone or your friends, but for me, too! Just give me something good, one goddamn good night, that isn’t about cancer and feeling like shit and being tired or crabby or any other excuse you can think of.”

You tuned out and said nothing.

…

Thursday, December 1

so, yesterday sucked.

ate two bowls of cereal in the morning,

and it completely knocked me into nasty.

felt all bad things while trying to function,

and finally surrendered to a four-hour nap.

(is four hours still considered a nap?)

i watched a movie, and spent the rest of the day

in a grouchy, vegetative state.

yeeeesh.

needless to say,

i’m planning out my diet today

with a little more discretion.

i know there will be more bad days,

that they’re part of the process:

expecting anything else is naive.

but in recovery you get used to progress,

accustomed to improvement,

so much so that when you take a step back

it feels like it’s so much farther than it is.

this morning,

showered.

rested.

a long list of things to do,

things that will get done

instead of slept on.

people to call back.

out of minutes on my phone, but fuck it…

make today as good

as yesterday was bad.

It’s all part of the process.

posted by Anthony Glass at 8:17 a.m.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Thursday, December 1, 12:05 p.m.
Subject:
this morning

made my list of things,

showered.

clean.

wrote a new entry in my blog,

planning on writing more later for myself.

nothing inspires a good day

more than a bad one.

it seems you have the bad shift again…

coming to see me at night,

after the day has taken its toll on me,

and i have nothing left to offer

except sad, confused stories from the day

and an exhausted head in your lap.

that sucks.

"Details of the War"
Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah