even if i am. (19 page)

it’s odd, unbalanced, sharing none of the glory

that it’s younger brother “21” wields.

no, not sexy at all.

my last few birthdays have been celebrated

by traveling someplace new, and (usually) someplace far.

however, as i’ve burned through all my vacation/sick days

for what may be the next five years, this year would be different.

chas and i continued my fledgling tradition

by taking a ferry from long beach harbor

to catalina island (all of one whole hour away).

officially, we stepped off the mainland and therefore

traveled “overseas” to what honestly feels like a faraway land.

golf carts are the dominant mode of transportation.

buffalo roam in force.

old people are everywhere.

(a great place for feeling young.)

biggest changes i’ve made now that i’m 31:

1. new e-mail address. (a whole different story.)
   
2. use cnn.com for my news/info gathering. why?
   york did it, so it must be mature.
   
3. and beer is now tea. (see above.)
   

other than that, things are still very much the same.

and it is a happy birthday.

posted by Anthony Glass at 9:08 p.m.

From:
[email protected]
To:
friends
Sent:
Monday, January 25, 9:25 p.m.
Subject:
true story

1996.

an impressionable young film student

saunters across the campus of san diego state,

and into the campus computer lab

to start an “e-mail account.”

user ID? hmmm…

i could use my name?

no way, too unoriginal.

i’m a FILM student! be creative!

well, i just saw this great french film: le samorai.

it’s different…

mysterious…

whatever.

i’ll come up with something better tomorrow.

ten years later.

my girlfriend and i watch the recently issued dvd release

of the 1967 jean-pierre melville french gangster classic.

she falls asleep in the first act.

the plot twist makes no sense.

credits roll.

i am confused.

it dawns on me that for ten years i have carried the moniker

of a film that i don’t really understand,

and only marginally enjoy.

my girlfriend laughs.

i’ve been planning on starting a gmail account for some time,

and well, frankly, this seems like the perfect time.

user ID?

[email protected]

write me anytime.

p.s. i have the dvd if anyone wants to borrow it and explain the end to me.

…

“Do you feel that?” you asked.

I placed my fingers under yours to examine your neck. “Where?”

“Right here,” guiding my fingertips to the exact spot.

“Move your fingers. Right there?”

“Yeah?” I could feel the lump.

“It’s hard. Like a little pea. What is it?”

“It’s probably a swollen lymph node,” I said in my best nurse voice. “Do you feel okay?”

“I feel a little tired, but not sick or anything.”

“Do you think it’s a side effect from your chemo? Is it sore?”

“Not really. We should tell Dr. Apathy on Tuesday.”

“It’s probably nothing, but yeah let’s definitely tell him.”

…

Sunday, February 5

sparks

fuckin’ hell.

i should be writing more often than this.

it’s a fight.

but sundays are a day of surrender.

and sunday night, even more so.

this week was an ordinary week.

a good week.

full of work, chas, friends, stuff,

exercise. fuckin’ shit. raquetball?

it is quite a moment at 30 years old

(oh shit, 31 years old),

to admit to yourself you’ve never been

as out of shape in your life as you are now.

fuckin’ hell.

stretch.

remember.

body.

strength.

okay, so it’s superbowl sunday.

10 p.m.

the smoky aftermath is blowing by.

jay and i sold our souls to costco, home depot, and albertson’s

so that we could pull a barbecue out of our arse…

and it was fucking worth it.

completely.

steaks. ahi. skewers. beer n’ guacamole. what was forgotten?

it was a great group of people to balance the game,

the food, and the mutherfucking commercials…

commercials.

when does one pee?

miss the game or miss the culture?

guilty confession
#
1:

completely sold on the promos during the game,

ended up watching “grey’s anatomy” after the game.

tried to find the michael stipe and coldplay cover

of “in the sun”

they used in the episode — too bad. too new.

listened to joseph arthur as we cleaned up the house.

listening to coldplay now.

feels like talking to an old friend.

strange how that changes.

what else?

chemo continues.

lymph nodes swell.

yecht!

posted by Anthony Glass at 9:43 p.m.

…

“Your eyes are absolutely beautiful.”

“Ahh, shucks.” I blinked my eyelashes rapidly. You could still get me to blush.

“So, Valentine’s Day. I kinda like the idea of wearing matching jumpsuits and going to the Olive Garden.”

“Really?” I was surprised but absolutely loving the ridiculousness of it.

“It’s so cheeseball it just might be perfect for us.” You loved it, too, but started offering more concrete plans. “Otherwise we could go to a fancy restaurant on the Westside and then maybe a movie.”

“Lame,” I declared. You smiled at me.

“Stay in bed and snugglespoonkisskissspoon?”

I snorted when I laughed. “Hmmm. Not a bad idea, but we can add that to the jumpsuit plan?”

“Let’s see… We could get in the truck, drive up the coast, and have a picnic in the Cruiser?”

“That sounds beautiful, but let’s do that the day after.” I settled into the overstuffed couch, pulled the quilt over both our laps, and savored the moment.

“Ooor, we could stay in the gray zone and not celebrate?”

“No way!” I hit you with a pillow. “We have to celebrate. It’s our year anniversary.”

“Whatever we decide to do,” you said, pulling me closer with the blanket, “I’m glad we are doing it together.”

“Okay. Jumpsuits and Olive Garden. Sounds like we need to go shopping.”

“Get over here and cuddle me.”

From:
stepfather
To:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Tuesday, February 14, 11:50 a.m.
Subject:
Happy Valentine

Hi, lovebirds. I hope you have a great Valentine’s Day. Your mother and I will have a quiet dinner at home, but we have been out a lot and it will feel good to have quiet time together. We are also looking forward to our week of meetings and skiing in Colorado. We have both been going in emergency gear for several weeks, and the sunshine and fresh air will be wonderful.

We think of you often, and you are in our prayers every evening as we start dinner. My dream is that spring and then summer will come, your chemo will be over, and you both can join us in Maine for some time by the lake: swimming, sailing, water skiing, paddling the new kayaks, dinners on the deck, watching sunsets, fires some mornings to take off the chill, long walks, quiet conversation. Sounds pretty good, doesn’t it. Consider it a date. Meanwhile, here’s another tele-hug.

We love you. I love you.

Dad

It’s just like the present to show up on Valentine’s Day. I want to write about Valentine’s Day, I do. I want to describe our matching red jumpsuits or the three-hour line at the Olive Garden. I want to write about the unlimited soup and salad, the overworked waitress, the coffee’s bitter aftertaste. I want to write that we never stopped kissing, never stopped laughing, never stop loving. Instead I suffer waves of overwhelming emotion that paralyze my ability to select words and simply tell the story, caught in the moment of Valentine’s Day. The faulty camera of my mind took a single picture of that scene, that day. It has become frozen within me. Stuck in that photograph, of me listening to a message you left on my voicemail, dressed in a red jumpsuit. Yet the news always comes unexpectedly, even when you’re waiting for it. Fear that eats away at your bones, screaming every step just to stay here in the present and enjoy Valentine’s Day. There was a pain in my heart and it was with me all day. I pressed save, and then listened to the message again before calling you back.

chapter thirty-four

don’t let it bring you down

My first thought after we hugged in the stairwell was, “We fit together perfectly.” And, when I lay beside you for the first time, I told you that.

I long to kidnap our first moments and bury them in the backyard, next to our veggie rainbow, just like we planned. I dreamt of capturing the scent of my birthday in a jar: the moon fell, my skin sleepy. Your hand went up my pajamas for the first time and unbuttoned me from the inside out. My stomach jumped at the touch of your cool fingers pressing my shoulders to lie back, my heart racing as you guided my body onto the bed. I remember wishing I had put away the unfolded laundry piled beneath us. Do you remember? How we couldn’t sleep that night? How your heart was beating so hard I didn’t have to be close to feel it? I remember our hands clenching tighter. Our bodies pressed closer and our breath became hotter. How exciting it was to fall in love with you, babe.

I wished on the stars to take us away, anywhere, so I could live in that moment forever. It was all so easy then. Is this what happens to grownups? Are all of these moments just preparation for the reality of life and death, love and loss, hope and regret, cure and cancer? I wanted to go back to Shuggie Otis and Bette and Joan and noteworthy birthdays and trips to Mexico and stairwell rendezvous.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Thursday, February 16, 8:16 p.m.
Subject:
literal

i’ve been looking through my music,

trying to find something to send.

forgive me if this is a smidge literal.

my insides are fire. burning. exploding.

my skin is cold, ice. trying to compensate.

trying to find balance.

breathing.

this is fucking hard.

and i haven’t even heard yet…

when i was talking to my mom yesterday,

i told her that i know it’s going to be a fight,

it’s just a matter of knowing what i’m up against.

i’m going to do this.

if it burns my hair,

if it has to come out my mouth, my ass,

it’s coming out.

i’m going to kick this thing in the fucking balls.

hard.

i was thinking recently about all the cheesy television dramas

when somebody is in the hospital, on the verge of dying.

the doctor always says to the family/friend/wife

“he’s going to make it. he’s a fighter.”

it crossed my mind, because i wondered

if that was my fate, what would they say about me?

“uh… he pussed out. sorry.”

but right now, thinking about it.

there’s no way.

no fucking way.

i’m fighting.

whoever it’s with.

"Don't Let It Bring You Down"
Annie Lennox

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Thursday, February 16, 8:32 p.m.
Subject:
Re: literal

you are gonna kick its ass

double elbows and throw down…

and it’s gonna run out of your body

it’ll be so scared of your strength.

I know this.

I believe this.

and sure there will be a fight,

there will be moments

it fights back,

moments it hurts,

and moments it intimidates

and discourages any strength you have…

but you will come back stronger.

you might have to listen to “eye of the tiger”

to muster the strength.

but you will come back to fight,

because there is NO stronger person than you!

BRING IT ON!

and while you watch those cheesy television dramas

when somebody is in the hospital, on the verge of dying,

and the doctor says to the family/friend/wife,

“he’s going to make it, he’s a fighter,”

our response will be…

of course he’s gonna make it!

…

It wasn’t even three months since we set off on our idealistic trip into a cancer-free relationship around your troubled and transitioning body. Now, my heart was in tatters — stretched to bloated, then diminished and re-inflated so many times that it physically hurt.

I didn’t think cancer would come back. I thought this year would be different. Perplexed and fearful, I tried to consider this my force-fed growth period. My steep learning curve to weathered maturity. It would only make our love stronger in the end. My mom told me once, “God never gives you anything you can’t…”

Who am I kidding? Fuck. Cancer, again?

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Friday, February 17, 1:10 p.m.
Subject:
Re: literal

here’s the new stuff:

avastin and cpt-11

starting my quest for info.

i love you.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Friday, February 17, 3:22 p.m.
Subject:
Re: literal

sounds like quite the quest.

try to take some time to relax, too.

take nap.

go for a walk.

clear your head.

if you need anything, call.

I love you more.

There’s a non-profit organization called the F*?! Cancer Foundation. They have these great t-shirts and charity dinners and a blog. The website is a bit too punk rock for my liking, but I was feeling angry. I think I passed the denial phase and moved straight into anger. I didn’t even know what the next phase of grief was, but I knew already, it was gonna suck. I read another cancer patient’s personal website. The empathy I felt for the stranger’s confusion and pain became the basis of an immediate bond. I half-considered reaching out, for your sake, or maybe mine — to write her a letter confirming her sentiments. There is also a jewelry designer named Susan who created these beautiful sterling silver bracelets that read “fuck cancer.” I kind of want one. They’re pretty, elegant even.

How did I find the bracelets? I Googled “fuck cancer.”

—
Forwarded Message to [email protected]
From:
mother
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Monday, February 20, 6:00 p.m.
Subject:
Treatment

I spoke with our chief oncologist here at my hospital. He said you are on track with your new treatment!
Go for it! I’ll be thinking about you, especially
tomorrow.

—
Forwarded Message to [email protected]
From:
[email protected]
To:
mother
Sent:
Tuesday, February 21, 11:47 a.m.
Subject:
Re: Treatment

chas and i are both reading

“beating cancer with nutrition” by patrick quillin,

and getting a lot out of it in terms of what i eat

and need to eat.

it’s been fascinating.

went to see a holistic doctor yesterday

and had a good experience

discussing supplements that i can take to help boost

my immune system both in fighting the cancer

and against the side effects of the chemo. a good resource.

went to a chiropractor in the afternoon,

and he felt more like a salesman than anything else.

we laughed about it on the way home.

today of course, is the new chemo.

chas and i are on our way out the door now.

i will see when the next appointment is,

it might make sense to come out the following weekend

instead of next weekend in order to be here for that.

i’ll let you know how today unfolds.

be well.

love,

a.

“I hate tubes.”

“Me, too,” I confirmed.

“I hate Dr. Apathy.”

“Me, too.” I snuggled into the crook of your arm, the one not receiving chemo and turning your veins black. I continued my distraction by reading the high-glossed pamphlet Dr. Apathy handed us before walking out. It was more like a magazine: “Coping with Advanced Cancer.” I read that chemo kills fast-growing cells, which are often cancer cells. That’s its purpose. However, your body has other fast-growing cells that are also affected — in your hair, the lining of your mouth, and digestive tract — stupid pamphlet. I skimmed to the last paragraphs. A living will lets people know what kind of medical care patients want if they are unable to speak for themselves. A will? Are you kidding me? “You don’t need to read this. It’s stuff we already know. Fuck cancer.” I threw the pamphlet on Dr. Apathy’s cluttered desk.

I thought we went through treatment smoothly, even the follow-up chemo went well. You kept active, ate healthful food, and spent time cuddling me, laughing with friends, phoning family. So what if you had a backache or two — whatever. We were on the final countdown. I even sang loudly,
it’s the final countdown da na na naaaa, da na na na naaaa.
The song always made you roll your eyes, but laugh.

Yet, here we were again, not counting down the last rounds but hoping for a miracle. This bullshit swollen lymph node appeared on your left shoulder and neck, ready to fight back. I didn’t know what this new chemo cocktail meant. When Dr. Apathy handed you his wastepaper basket “just in case,” what did that mean? Just in case what? We sat, passing time, helpless to do anything but wait, staring at the wastepaper basket.

We made it home, even ate a bit of lunch. But then it happened, the “just in case” he was talking about. First a spell of dizziness. You should have told me you were carsick on the drive home; you seemed so chatty. I handed you two puke pills, but alas, too late. You couldn’t take a sip of fluid without vomiting. I was mad — at what, I don’t even know. I handed you two more puke pills, as you hugged the toilet. I thought it might help to run a cold washcloth under the faucet. I placed it on the bend of your neck. You didn’t thank me, but it seemed to help.

I never told you, but I saw it. I saw it in your movements. The embarkment. The self-defeat. I didn’t know what to say, so I just sat there on the edge of the tub. Speechless.

Once the nausea started, it was hard to stop. You had me worried and angry that it was never going to pass. Such a strange combination of feelings. After hours of coughing up anything and everything, your stomach settled enough for you to lie down and take a nap. I thanked God.

“Don’t tell my mother. I don’t want her to worry.”

“I won’t.” I wanted to, but I never did. Instead I waited to see if things got worse. I lay with you in bed and rubbed your head in my lap.

“Mm, that feels sooo good.”

The next few days weren’t as miserable. At least you were able to keep some food down. The nastiest side effect was serious constipation. You kept taking a natural laxative, which worked occasionally. You often overdosed, and then resorted to plain old-fashioned charmers like milk of magnesia and Imodium for diarrhea. The ebb and flow of digestion was either runny or rocks. But I will say, even though the side effects sucked, it was something we could manage. Something we could focus on. Surely this time the chemo would work. It had to.

Wednesday, February 22

for fuck’s sake

this blog began shortly after i started fighting cancer,

as a place to inform family and friends,