Two Lucky

Rusty called this morning with bad news. His latest scan showed the cancer had progressed. There are now two tumors - each measuring 1cm in diameter - in his liver. I am barely keeping it together at work. There are articles to write, bags to pack, tears to cry. I cannot believe we are going to reunite in New York under these circumstances. I had prepared to celebrate, not grieve.

In New York, we will see our string of doctors, consult with them on next steps. For now it seems certain Rusty will quit his job and move back to the US. What will I do?

These next few months are significant for a variety of reasons. They are anniversaries - time markers that bob in an impassive sea of life. We float, drift inevitably to return to these signaled memories. We are moved to look back and contemplate how we began our journey.

On Nov 28, Rusty and I met in French Roast at the corner of 86th and Broadway. We talked over coffee, sparkling water and a small thin-crust pizza. The sun had just set. Two hours later, we opted for a simple dinner at Cafe con Leche on 92nd and Amsterdam. He had a lightly grilled fish, I had a shrimp salad. I remember counting the number of times I excused myself to touch up in the bathroom - five. He thought maybe the shrimp didn’t agree with me.

I never imagined I would come this far in our relationship. When Rusty was first diagnosed, I barely knew him. We had been dating only a few weeks, and so I struggled to decide if I would stay. Friends around me warned of difficult times ahead. “Life-changing,” one foretold.

This Friday, I will be on a flight back to New York. I am returning to the city with mixed feelings. It is a little like meeting up with an ex-lover. There are old conversations you cling onto, smells you covet, memories you’d rather forget.

My last visit to New York was difficult. It was almost a year ago. I had flown in to see Rusty, who had also arrived from Paris. The month before, his scans had shown three small spots in his right lung. This was the first time we were told that the cancer had infiltrated beyond his skin.

This was in December. When we got the call from the hospital, there was a light drizzle outside. In the East Village apartment we sublet from craigslist, we huddled on the couch and wept. During the dark days of this development, all we had was each other - our hands, our tears, and the nestling comfort of our bodies.