Did

Yesterday was the one-year anniversary of Chris’ second diagnosis. I remember it as if it happened yesterday. I was at work, awaiting his phone call, certain that his doctors appointment was going to result in the knowlegde that his pain was being caused by adhesion from his recent surgery.

In hindsight, I think I may have been in denial. Adhesion was the safe bet to go with but even so, I think I remember being terrified that Chris’ cancer had come back. I didn’t want to think about it so I convinced both of us that he was suffering from scar tissue.

I don’t even remember what time he called me. The entire timeline from the past two years is nothing but a big blur. I can’t remember whether things happened before the surgery, after the second diagnosis, after Chris died, before Chris died...I simply can’t remember.

I know he called sometime in the afternoon. I was at my desk at work. When I answered my phone, I asked, “What’s going on?” and Chris replied, “Well, it’s not good.”

“What?” I asked. “Just tell me. I’m tough. I can handle it.” I said. Chris told me, “I have tumors on my liver.”

We talked a bit more about it and what it meant and what our next course of action would be. He was slotted to begin chemo treatments the very next day and for the first time since he got cancer, Chris asked me if I could come with him. I did. A year ago today, I was sitting with Chris at Dana Farber while they pumped that poisonous chemo through his veins.

I remember his doctor stopped by and said, “I think it’s working. He looks great, doesn’t he?” I said, “Yes he does!” beaming at the doctor’s words. He wouldn’t have said that if Chris wasn’t going to live. Except that he would say it. And he did say it. I understand why. If so much of cancer recovery is based on the patient’s belief that he or she will live, then it makes perfect sense to try to pump them up in any way possible.

For five days straight, I drove Chris to chemo, sat with him, stayed with him, loved him, took care of him and hoped against hope that he would be okay.

When his first round of treatments was finished, I drove him home to begin recovering from it. I didn’t go back to to work. He needed me. I did leave the apartment once to rush out and get my flu shot for Chris’ protection. For fourteen months I did everything for Chris’ protection. I got a flu shot, sanitized the bathroom, the doorknobs every surface and the air. I changed the sheets constantly, washed my hands obsessively and tried to make sure he drank enough water so that he wouldn’t become dehydrated.

Three weeks after that round of chemo, Chris still had not recovered. He reported feeling dizzy abd being short of breath. He couldn’t walk across the room without running out of breath and becoming exhausted.

Bonnie e-mailed the doctor to ask about experimental treatments. He told her that Chris would be a good candidate but in order for it to happen, the chemo would first have to have some effect on Chris’ tumors. He typed, “...and frankly, I’m very worried.” He knew. He constantly tried to make Chris believe he was okay, even though he knew the truth. Chris really trusted him.

The morning that I ran out to get my shot, I was in a complete and utter panic. I couldn’t leave him but if I didn’t leave him, I risked bringing the flu home. I had no choice. I sat on the floor next to the couch Chris was lying on and told him I would be right back. I remember his lips were covered in blood. I was really scared and told him. Chris said, “Yeah. That happens sometimes.”

Because I had not gone to past apointments with him or stayed out of work, I had missed so many horrors during Chris’ illness. I still can’t believe what he had to go through and that he chose to go through it alone. It was his way of holding onto as much independence as he could.

I got to the doctors office twenty-five minutes early and freaked out. The thought of waiting there while my Creej writhed around in a chemo-induced haze was way too much for me to bear. I walked up to the window and pleaded with the clerk to take me right away. I told her my husband was home alone enduring intense chemo side-effects and begged her to send me in right away. She did. I was home ten mintues later.

I spent the next couple of weeks enduring my husband’s pain, his moans, his discomfort and his depression and loss of will. For the rest of my life, I will never experience pain worse than witnessing that and being completely helpless. There was nothing I could do for him. Nothing.

I wished I was in pain, too. That was all I could do. I wanted to help but I couldn’t. I wanted to take his pain and his fear away but I couldn’t . I wanted him to not have had cancer. I wanted to return to happier times, to get married again, to go away together.

Now all I want in this entire world is to feel him hugging me again and to see his beautiful smile and to have his friendship again

If I lost everything else in this world and at least had those three things, I would have everything I needed. I did have everything I needed.