even if i am. (21 page)

okay, enough pouting… time to work.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Friday, February 24, 12:38 p.m.
Subject:
Re: crappy

i understand completely,

and have had many a morning

when i felt just that way (minus the part about the period).

know that i miss the fuck out of you,

and if i’m going to get a crappy night’s sleep,

i might as well do it with you next to me

taking up the vast majority of space on the bed,

rather than by myself.

made my to-do list,

march will be an interesting month.

(huffpuff)

gladys and i were just wrestling

for the heavyweight championship of the world.

i gave her a couple of elbow drops and it was over.

i’d like to thank god, who made this all possible,

uh… my girlfriend for leaving gladys at my house…

and… uh… the wwf for teaching me my dope moves.

besides the wrestling, i have actually been doing stuff.

I talked to kaethy, she wants us to come to cambria

meet her father. he too has cancer.

what you think?

…

I always loved Cambria, California. The town has a charming main street, and a splendid little garden store with a nursery out back. The handful of times I’ve traveled there I’ve bought something. Lavender scented soaps, apple seedlings to plant, rubber gardening gloves, loose leaf teas. The aroma filling the store is well worth the six-hour trip, but the garden out back I was most excited to share with you. I knew you’d love it. We could spend Saturday afternoon touring the subtle sages, perfectly placed bird baths, densely clipped oleanders and blooming jasmine. Afterwards we’d eat seafood stew at Brambles and explore the pine-covered hills and rugged shoreline, squinting at the sunset. I had it all planned. I was even eager to meet Kaethy’s parents for breakfast.

Anthony and me visiting Cambria to meet Kaethy’s parents.

Kaethy’s father, Bob greeted us. His face broke into a wide smile. Giving you a bear hug, he began his chatter of a welcome, mumbling within the embrace. If you ask me, his winsome grin made me wish he was your father and that we could visit him whenever we wanted. His amusing sense of conversation made me like him straightaway. He was the kind of guy who probably knew all the lyrics to James Taylor’s “Country Road.” He’d never sing along but instead say, “Hell yeah, man, good song,” to the radio.

His wife Rose doted. She had eyes that weren’t even a color like blue or green or brown. They were clear and clean and captivating. They told only stories of absolute truth. I believed everything she said, and I am pretty sure you did, too.

Bob and Rose were the couple I always wanted to be. The moment I saw them, I knew how much they loved each other. They would do something so indescribably adorable, so subtle — Rose would tuck Bob’s hair behind his ear after he adjusted his reading glasses. You and I smiled at each other, delighted to witness such love.

How amazing was that breakfast and her homemade waffles and the fruit plate? I’ve never seen you eat that much fruit before. The blueberries stained your fingers and the kiwi seeds littered the gaps of your teeth. You looked lighthearted sipping strong coffee and chatting and listening to the stories of Kaethy’s childhood; why they moved to Santa Rosa and the Santa Ana Winds over the Valley and how they spent their afternoons gardening and happily doing their grown son’s laundry.

Bob, with his courage and confidence, guided the conversation to the reason we were here.

“Kaethy shared with us the news. Stage 4, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Colon?”

“Yeah.”

“When did you start the new chemo?”

“It’s only been a couple of weeks.” You sounded nervous, and I wanted to answer for you. “My mother is coming for the next treatment after her ski trip to Colorado. I’m hoping it doesn’t go as bad as the first. I got pretty sick.”

“Not surprised.” He nodded. “What are you taking?”

“Avastin and CPT-11. The first day was bad, but the rest of the side effects have been rather minor. My biggest thing is keeping up my weight. I dropped five pounds last week as if it were an afterthought. Chas has me drinking these disgusting protein shakes…”

Rose smiles tenderly at Bob and interrupts, “He loves the protein smoothies I make him. Don’t you?” She winks at me. Bob rolls his eyes and puffs out his cheeks as if he just threw up in his mouth a little as Rose heads back into the kitchen.

“Chas bought a bunch of Ensure a few weeks ago, and I swear they almost made me poop my pants.” We all laugh loudly. “I got two blocks from the house and had to turn around and come home. So disgusting.”

“You’ll get used to them. Try the vanilla one, on ice.”

“I’m gonna need a lot more than ice to keep that down. Though, I don’t mind the strawberry one.”

Bob says, “Try mixing the chocolate with strawberry.”

“Was it hard for you to put weight on while still eating healthy?”

“Of course,” he says.

“We’ve been reading this book about the correlation between nutrition and cancer. It seems utterly obvious but we keep reading it.”

“What’s it called?”

“
Beating Cancer with Nutrition
by Patrick Qumillan. It’s interesting.”

“I’m sure we have that book. We’ve tried everything.”

“Yeah?” You sounded surprised. “Us, too.”

“Rose even has me sleeping with a healing crystal at night and eating apple seeds for the poison.”

You looked at Bob funny.

“I don’t know,” he shakes his head and does the crazy circle with his index finger around his ear. “I’ll try it if it keeps her happy, but you just never know, this disease still might kill me.” The room goes quiet, as you and Bob look at each other with understanding only the two of you know. He repeats it, looking you directly in the eyes. “You might die from this. You just never know.”

It was the first time I heard the word, die. Maybe I heard it or read it before, but this was the first time I considered it. Death. I got up from the table to see if Rose needed help in the kitchen. I want to be a part of the understanding, what it means to be fighting for your life, but really, I don’t understand. Maybe this trip was a bad idea.

chapter thirty-six

how it ends

Monday, February 27

new school

how to beat cancer:

step 1. combine a generous portion of delicious lemon-pledge tasting super immune-building powder supplement with OJ.

step 2. enjoy!

a vanguard approach

in the multi-pronged attack of cancer therapy

is to drink something so putrid and disgusting

that the cancer cells

are fooled into thinking your body has started to decompose,

and they die on contact.

amazing.

i feel it working…

posted by Anthony Glass at 3:43 a.m.

…

Your mom came again with her whirlwind of ideas and solutions. We took notes and nodded and said yes to things to improve your health. I learned how to cook broccoli in the microwave and sweet potatoes. I loved her idea of spending the money to buy a new mattress. Surely that would help your backaches. And yes, I thought getting a second opinion after the next round of chemo was an excellent idea.

That was when she first mentioned a lawsuit. I now understand why she wanted to. Paying for the surgery up front was a lot of money, and what for? To have the cancer return? I honestly didn’t think filing a failure to diagnosis suit was such a bad idea.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Monday, February 27, 11:42 a.m.
Subject:
something familiar

woke up with the dawn this morning

(and a little bit of parrot screeching)

and felt very, very good.

rested, not sore, just good.

sat down with my mom for morning tea

and had a nice long talk about everything.

nutrition, of course, but also jay, you, me, work,

and how maybe we can all fit under this roof.

making breakfast now, amending the to-do list.

the french doors are wide open, and fresh cool air

is slowly breathing in while the rest of the world awakens.

sending you a familiar song.

thanks again for the movie last night,

little miss sunshine.

it was brilliant.

"How It Ends"
DeVotchKa

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Monday, February 27, 11:42 a.m.
Subject:
Re: something familiar

good song to start the day with.

last night was fun.

I am glad we watched the movie together,

as a family.

I’m curious to hear the details of

your morning conversation with mom,

her thoughts about nutrition,

about Jay,

about me,

about work.

I hope you guys have a wonderful day

filled with love and a new mattress. I can’t wait.

I have a somewhat slow day today,

so feel free to call or e-mail me often!

I missed you last night…

it feels much safer

lying next to you.

I was starting to understand your mother’s concerns and her ways to help. Okay, maybe my opinion turned after I found out she too thought it was the right idea to live together. And maybe I really liked her after you told me that she thinks I’m great. Who doesn’t like someone after they praise you? “I’ve always admired your mother. What? Don’t give me that look.”

…

You asked Jay. He said no, just like that. Not a single word more. You told him you needed me here, but I don’t think he understood the severity of it. I think he thought of me as a roadblock to your friendship. He might have even hated me. I was always around. Cooking in his kitchen, lounging on his couch, watching his TV. This was his house. You were his best friend. He didn’t want to share that with me.

There was another hurdle, too. It was time to tell my parents about our relationship, especially if we were considering living together. I told my mom first. She was easier to win over — as long as I am happy, my mom is happy. My dad, on the other hand, he’s a tough nut to crack. In high school I used to say that if I were dating Jesus, my dad would still find faults with him. He’d say, “I don’t trust the guy.”

I didn’t mention to either of them that you had cancer. Instead I told them about your parents, age, where you grew up. I e-mailed them pictures of us on the beach in Cambria, and the one of you and Gladys napping on the couch. I also didn’t mention the idea of us living together, not yet. My dad responded in his usual short, cold, all caps (as if he’s yelling) e-mail.

Another one of our self-photographed dates, and Anthony’s favorite photo of us.

Many afternoons looked just like this, Anthony napping on the couch with Gladys.

Like I said, a tough nut to crack, yet he still calls me darling:

HI DARLING DAUGHTER, THANX FOR THE PICTURES. THE GIRLS IN THE OFFICE THINK ANTHONY IS A HUNK. THEY ALSO THINK GLADYS IS CUTE. I LOVE YOU, DAD

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Wednesday, March 1, 1:25 p.m.
Subject:
rentals

just took a look at westside rentals

and almost got swallowed up by all the listings.

thinking about buying a membership

and seeing where these places actually are.

still need to talk to jay again.

it is easy to get excited about a new place.

a place with you…

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Wednesday, March 1, 1:38 p.m.
Subject:
Re: rentals

I wonder what jay will say this time around.

I am not looking forward to moving,

but yet I’m sorta excited by the idea.

the good thing is,

we have plenty of time to look,

until we find the perfect place

for both of us, and gladys.

we’ll figure it out.

…

“Your back hurts again?” Shaking my head pityingly I said, “Maybe you should try taking a bath?”

“I can’t fit into the tub.”

“How do you know? When’s the last time you took a bath?” I tried to be good-natured about the suggestion. “I’m gonna run one and you’re getting in. End of conversation. I promise it’ll help.”

I ran the hot water with just a splash of cold. You settled into the tub, letting your body adjust to the slowly filling heat. I poured lavender bubble bath, added a little more than necessary so it felt playful and sudsy. You looked boyish as you splashed around arousing the bubbles. By the time I returned with a fluffy towel and washcloth the bathroom floor was soaking wet. You were climbing a mountain of lavender sparkles.

“Okay, you were right.” Your eyes shone brightly as I kissed the tip of your nose. “This feels amaaaazing.”

Your smile made me want to splash around with you. “If only the tub was big enough for two.” I sat on the floor, wet the washcloth and wiped your back.

“Ohhhh, that feels good.”

“Is this when I get to say, I told you so?” You wrinkled your nose, then blew a pile of suds flying towards me as I giggled.

“Do you believe in God?” you asked.

“What?” Dumbfounded by your frankness and at a loss on how to answer.

“I don’t know, just wondering.”

I took a deep breath. “Yes. I do. You?”

“No.”

“I can’t believe we’ve never had this conversation before. Really? You don’t believe in anything? Something bigger than all of this?” I displayed the bathroom cream tiled walls with a wave of my hand, palm facing up.

“Not at all. I believe you live and you die and that’s it.”

I was concentrating on what you were saying, waiting for something concrete to come out of your words. This was kind of profound for bathtub conversation. “And that’s it? Nothing more?”

“I can’t get my head around the idea of grand father figure, a higher power. Seems absurd.”

“Maybe that’s your problem. Maybe you need to feel Him instead of think Him. Maybe your head is in the way of your heart?”

You smiled, shrugged and paused. “I’m ready to have children.”

“Whoa, babe! Where did that come from?” The comment threw a sad switch in me. “Weren’t we just talking about God?”

“I was just thinking about the song, ‘He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands,’” you sang and splashed. “I can see our daughter singing that. I can see her mother teaching her the melody and her singing it out loud, imitating her mother’s beautiful voice.”

Your lips curled and I saw heaven in the corner of your smile and I just wanted to find my way inside. Be in that vision with you, watching our daughter sing. I choked back tears. “I’m ready to have children whenever you are.”

Your eyes started to water. “Our daughter is absolutely beautiful, isn’t she?”

“She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” I whispered. “She’s got your smile.”

“I think we should name her Chanthony.” We both laughed as I wiped the tears from your cheeks and left a trail of soap suds.

“Uncle Zach would be so proud.” My breath was uneven, and I was trying not to have a complete meltdown.

“Maybe we should get through this round of chemo first.”

I nodded in agreement.

“Do you think the next treatment will be as bad? Do you think I’ll get sick again?”

I mumbled, “God, I hope not.”

“Promise me you will be okay without me. Promise me our family will be beautiful. That our children will know the words to ‘I’ve Got the Whole World…’” Just then your shoulders gave and you cried. You cried with your eyes, with your hands, feet, lips, ears, chest, you cried. And I cried right alongside you.

Afraid I might say the words wrong, I hesitated, took a deep breath, wiped the tears from your face with my pruney fingers and swallowed. “You can’t die, babe. Because I’m not done loving you.”