even if i am. (9 page)

chapter seventeen

i want you

There was a time I considered myself to be a smart aleck, a personality trait I wasn’t necessarily proud of. People called me a pessimist. But here’s the thing: I wasn’t pessimistic about cancer. I’d already seen its face — in my mother’s cervical cancer and my grandfather’s prostate cancer. Hell, Gladys my dog has cancer. Cancer is a half-full glass.

Anthony’s treatment was planned to be straightforward, logical, and optimistic. It consisted of a regimen of chemo pills and radiation for six weeks, followed by colorectal surgery in November, which would remove any existing tumors. After surgery, he would face one more round of follow-up chemo, then remission. Cancer sounded simple. A, B, C, and then happily-ever-after.

He packed for a summer trip to Maine as I crammed boxes for my new life in a pink house. Time was on our side. I knew nothing about colon cancer, but I didn’t need to. Ahead of us were summer, pills, radiation, dates, movies, friends, fun, love. It was the summer of possibilities as we held onto hope.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Tuesday, August 9, 2:04 p.m.
Subject:
maine

we just got DSL at the house in maine,

so i will be able to write

(and hopefully read)

e-mails on a regular basis.

writing to you is very much

like writing a journal:

open, descriptive, consistent.

i am planning on bringing

both my digital still camera

and my video camera

to document the trip.

looking forward to showing you

just how retarded my family is,

how beautiful the lake is,

and just where and when

i would have wished you could be.

going to read lance armstrong

i think his book is just the thing

i need to read before jumping

into radiation and chemotherapy.

6 p.m. sharp.

let’s get the helloutahere!

…

“You can hug me if you want to.” I grabbed Anthony’s waist before he finished the word hug.

“Okay, I better head to the airport.” His arms left mine.

“Miss me.”

I know, I said it wrong.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Date: Tuesday, August 10, 1:12 p.m.
Subject:
in the tradition

of being seventh graders,

i want you to know

that i miss you already…

and i send you

all the strength i have

to help you with your heart,

and your move…

…

I owned very little, only a small U-Haul’s worth, but I packed boxes labeled kitchen, bedroom, and bath, taping cardboard and wrapping glasses as if I were moving across the country. Some dishes, a coffee table, bookshelf, books, clothes, and Gladys were the requirements. I packed only known belongings, and left any co-purchases Five Year might question, including Kala, our cat. She scratched him whenever he tried to hold her. I smiled at her curled on the couch, knowing she would be the first to comfort him home.

Okay, maybe I left her out of spite.

Friends dollied furniture to the moving truck. As the packing progressed, I felt fragments of regret while examining framed photos.
What have I done? How did I let it get this far?
I thought about the first time I met Five Year, the years, the moments. The day I moved into this apartment, his apartment. Our anniversaries, holidays…

“Come on, you’re slowing down.” Zach nudged my shoulder as I sighed. He crouched on the floor next to me and examined a celebrated snapshot of a past Christmas.

“I can’t believe I am really doing this,” I said, shaking my head.

“Me, neither.”

“Really?” I said, stunned.

“Really. It feels like you’ve been talking about this move forever. And, well, I thought you’d stay with him, even though you were unhappy. You kept giving it a chance, and it seemed like an easier option than starting over.”

That’s me, my usual pattern of always trying to work it out.

Zach grabbed the photo and placed it into the box. “You can’t change your mind now. All the boxes are in the U-Haul and I’m not about to unpack them for doubts.”

“He’s going to want to blame someone for my leaving.”

“Like himself?”

“I honestly think he did the best he could.”

“And yet he was still so selfish.”

“And now so am I.” I double taped the last box and labeled SELFISH STORAGE. “Time to be selfish.”

“How does it feel?” Zach asked.

“Hopeful.”

“Okay, truck is ready.” He grabbed the last box.

I kissed Kala on the head and whispered, “Be good to him.”

chapter eighteen

songs i listened to five years ago

I go to a support group now, five years later. I never really wanted to go, but I thought it would help and people kept telling me I needed to talk to someone instead of looking at old photographs and listening to remembered songs. There are a handful of people in the group, all of us sharing our stories of love and loss. They tell me it’s good to write down how I am feeling to help me deal with it all, and trust me, there is a lot to deal with. I’ve been writing, but every time I do, I don’t know what to write. I told the group that. Afterward a woman came up to me, placed her hand on my shoulder and said, stop writing
about
him and start writing
to
him.

chapter nineteen

i melt with you

I was flustered. I paced aimlessly in my office and dialed your extension four times before you finally picked up, babe. “What the hell took you so long?” It was Monday, our first day back at work together in over a week. I came in early because I hadn’t seen you in a lifetime. “Meet me in the stairwell.”

We didn’t talk, just kissed. Uncontrollably.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Thursday, August 18, 3:17 p.m.
Subject:
smile

when you smile at me,

holding it just a little longer

than you normally would…

it just about makes me melt.

i know i’m not being chatty,

and i’m sorry…

but it’s mostly because

i‘m trying to jump back

into the workflow around here…

(feeling a little like a waste)

and i’m also trying to figure out

how my body is dealing with

all this new stuff

i’m putting into it…

freakedout.

tonight is for you,

fun in any form you want it —

i’d love to see your house?

"I Melt With You"
Nouvelle Vague

…

It’s probably my favorite memory; the one of us touring my 500-square-foot home for the first time. Seems so long ago, doesn’t it, babe? The memory is difficult to label and file. It’s bold. It’s the memory that keeps wanting to be remembered. You do that — you have a way of making our memories unforgettable.

“This is my bathroom.” I had only an AM radio, a full size bed, and a few half-full boxes thrown about. As we moved through the mini maze, we ignored the belongings that were tolerantly waiting to be shown their new place. “This is my kitchen.” Standing in the middle of the room, we circled ourselves. That’s all the room allowed. I showed you the pantry I loved. Do you remember how big it was? “When on earth would I need that much space for food? Isn’t it incredible?”

“You really are starting over, aren’t you?”

Gazing at the clutter of possessions, I said, “I am.” A long exhale escaped me. “Tell me something good?”

Your eyes met mine and you said, “You’re simply beautiful.” I know I blushed as you grabbed my hand, led me to the only furniture in the house, a bed full of towels and laundry. You pushed the disorder aside, laid me softly on the mattress and removed your shirt. You didn’t hesitate. Caught between the felt and the imagined, desire broke any apprehension. I unbuttoned mine. Your hands moved like waves over me. You untied the knots of my legs with your kisses and lips. Not a word spoken between us. There was little to say. Everything had led up to this point. I knew how you felt, and there was nothing more to reveal. I wrapped my arms around your neck, swaying my hips. I wanted to bury myself in you, get lost with you. My embrace alternately soft, then fierce. Laundry crumpled between us. I held my breath until you finished.
I’ll stop the world and melt with you.

…

Odilon Redon. The Barque. c. 1902

You attached a picture of Odilon Redon’s
The Barque
with the e-card you sent. Two people on a boat in the darkness caught between a description and a dream. You wrote:

i wanted to find a different way

to say good morning,

because this feels like a different day…

waking up with you

after a beautiful evening together,

was absolutely lovely…

a.

Beyond the visible, beyond the evident, that night I staggered into the direction I was afraid of. All the roads I had traveled, relationships I had twisted my heart for — they felt like part of another lifetime, when love was melancholy and the road was full of mud. I was burned out from exhaustion. And then I turned around and there you stood, just beyond the visible. I didn’t have time to get my mind straight. I was, very late that night and in the morning hours, caught by you beside me, on me, in me, behind me.

“When you wake up, is it me you want to see?”

“Forever.”

I tried my best to get out of bed, but your kiss convinced me otherwise.

chapter twenty

ache for you

It was the dawn of sleepovers, endless hours spent tangled in sheets, exploring our bodies, sampling positions. From the first night of intimacy and every night thereafter, we cuddled, groped, spooned, and adored. We couldn’t get enough of each other. (Okay, at least I couldn’t get enough.) I was your blanket, and you were mine. I wanted to confess, confide my love in the middle of orgasm. With sex I loved wholly. With sex I gave everything.

However — a HUGE, catastrophic, a something-everyone-should-know-before-getting-involved-in-a-serious-relationship “however” — there was also the lack of sleep. I never thought about sleep. The physical act of sleep, the simple REM stage needed daily. I worried about parents and friends; I wondered about compatibility and foundation, sex and intimacy. But sleep? Anthony, you were the WORST sleeper of all time.

There. I said it. Sleeping with you, disastrous. Disastrous might even be a bit of an understatement. Sleeping side by side with you was just plain terrible. You tossed and turned, adjusting and repositioning. Kicked off blankets. Rolled yourself into a human burrito with the blankets. God forbid if the blankets were tucked into any crease around the mattress. Your body was fiery hot, and your toes cold and clammy. Your feet hung over the edge of my bed, persuading you to angle from corner to farthest corner leaving me only the upper edge, coverless. Hallelujah if I still had a pillow by sunrise. Sex was simple, wonderful. Sleep, dreadful.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Friday, August 26, 9:41 a.m.
Subject:
me first…

feeling awake,

productive, and good…

expecting to fall asleep

where i’m standing

sometime around 11 a.m.…

last night was beautiful…

and then uncomfortable,

disorienting, and ultimately hilarious…

so…

next time we have a sleepover,

can we go to my house?

where it’s quiet,

the bed doesn’t cut off my ankles,

and we’re not being serenaded to sleep

by the traffic on highland blvd.?

p.s. it was still wonderful. sort of.

"Ache For You"
Ben Lee

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Friday, August 26, 10:52 a.m.
Subject:
Re: me first…

so tired…

clinging to a cup of coffee.

as uncomfortable as it was,

it was nice to feel you next to me.

even if your body temperature

compares to the center of the sun.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Friday August 26, 11:34 a.m.
Subject:
Re: me first…

sorry you’re so tired…

yes, it was nice

to wake up with you

by my side…

and then wake up again…

and again…

body heat…

so?

i have CANCER, okay?

jeez…

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Friday, August 26, 3:53 p.m.
Subject:
Re: me first…

body heat?

it doesn’t come close

to describing how

warm you were last night!

and the cancer excuse…

doesn’t work with me, buddy.

I’m glad it will be winter soon.

my own human furnace.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Friday, August 26, 4:28 p.m.
Subject:
hmmmm

maybe we should go

to your house for a nap?

do you know what a “nooner” is?

hmmmmiwonder…