Two Lucky

Bureaucracy, by baboon

The third infusion

It is almost 2pm. I flinch involuntarily when the research nurse pushes a needle into Rusty’s arm.

We are at Memorial Sloan Kettering on 53rd and Lexington Ave, and in a few minutes Rusty will receive another dose of the new drug, Medarex. This is the first time I am sitting with him through the treatment, even though it will already be his third infusion. There is one more infusion after this, and then we will take scans. Looking at the modest, palm-sized plastic bag of clear liquid, I wonder if this clinical trial is what will save our future. Instinctively, out of habit, I pray under my breath.

When Dr Ejadi walks into the examination room, we describe to him the drug’s side effects since Rusty’s first infusion last month. “It’s nothing,” Rusty says, “Mostly fevers, night sweats, itching, no big deal.”

“Every night, though,” I add grimly. Dr Ejadi is attentive. When he speaks, words like “positive” and “activity” are thrown about. Our spirits are somewhat lifted. At the same time, we guard ourselves against reckless hope.

I feel an odd sense of comfort surrounded by the familiarity of white coats and whirring medical equipment. Behind a curtained cubicle, Rusty’s blood is drawn into eight skinny, glass vials. “To check for any kind of immunological response,” the nurse explains. Rusty is tired. He takes a nap on the stretcher while hooked to a weary-looking infusion pump. It beeps - as if to affirm its presence - like a heart beat.

(From left) Rachel Dratch, Fred Armisen, Rashida Jones and Andy Samberg, photos from the Internet

Christmas Day special

When Rachel Dratch drops her umbrella on my foot, I let out a little shriek. “I’m so sorry,” she apologizes to me. I try to respond, say something cool like “It’s okay,” but my jaws are too heavy to pull up. I start to mumble when Rusty steps in heroically: “Haha, no worries.”

In my defense, it wasn’t just Ms Dratch, who recently left celebrated comedy TV show, Saturday Night Live, to join Tina Fey’s 30 Rock on NBC seated next to us at a cafe on 9th and 2nd Ave. With her were SNL cast members Fred Armisen and Andy Samberg; and Rashida Jones from The Office (USA).

If you don’t already know this, Rusty and I are huge fans of both shows, and of Ms Dratch, who will appear next year alongside Amy Poehler and Parker Posey in the film, Spring Breakdown.

So for the next hour or so, it was a real challenge to curb our enthusiasm. To mask our fanatic chatter, we speak to each other in Mandarin. “Let’s not disturb them,” Rusty whispers to me conspiratorially. “I’m sure the last thing they want are two gay guys acting crazy and interrupting their personal time.”

When in the company of celebrities, I’ve learned two things - that they are impossible to ignore (from a reflexive, intellectually curious perspective), and that it is impossible not to smile. It’s as if by sheer proximity, we had been dusted by their celebrity glamor. The seduction of fame was never more evident: It plucked our daily experience out of the ordinary and made us feel special.

And of course, by “company”, I really mean “line of sight”, even though I’d like to think we came pretty close to actual conversation.

When our order arrives, the two mounds of waffles gloopy with chocolate ice cream elicit oohs from the celebrity crew. “What’s that?” Ms Dratch asks. “Waffles and ice cream.” Rusty replies. “It comes with chocolate balls,” I add helpfully. Ms Jones laughs. “That looks really good, the waffles I guess are kinda incidental,” she says.

We offer them some. Ms Dratch beams: “Aw, it’s Christmas, you’re being generous. It’s okay, we’re still working on our chocolate fondue.”

Chris Noth, by ranflickr

Celebrity Sighting

If there ever were a guy who represents New York for me, it would be Chris Noth. The Wisconsin-born actor, who plays Mr Big on world-hit Sex and the City, is all the Big Apple has to offer: Excessive wealth, bull-headed pride and a rogue sexiness that trumps, in my opinion, every trifle Carrie has deigned to walk next to in her Manolo Blahniks. This man, ladies and gentlemen, is bigger than Times Square.

So when Mr Noth walks into the Starbucks on the corner of 54 and Broadway, where I am waiting for Rusty to get off work, I almost spill my chemically-flavored green tea latte.

The buzz is palpable. In a few seconds, dropped jaws quickly recover to knowing, upturned smiles. Our eyes light up. It is as if we have all been anointed, blessed. Above the hissing of the espresso machines, a giggle from a giddy tourist breaks out.

Mr Noth is as smooth as the venti cappuccino he orders.

He stands in line, answers an opportune call to circumvent any embarrassing encounter. The coffee is ready instantaneously. He walks by me and picks it up, adds sugar to his drink. Five feet from the coffee bar, the rest of us stand back, holding our steaming cups, unsweetened and unmilked. When he finally walks out, we do all we can to resist reaching out to pet him.

Small boy in the woods, by bies

Dreams

I woke last night after a dream that Rusty cheated on me. I broke up with him. It was 4am. I walked out to the living room, where he lay sleeping on the couch. His skin was damp, glistening by the window. He had a fever again in the night.

I remember the dream vividly. We sat down one morning to breakfast and I asked him: Are you cheating? He said yes, with Sy. I haven’t seen, nor heard from Sy in over 10 years. When I think of him, I still see a 15-year-old pimply trumpeter. Oddly, I wonder first if he is still alive.

When I wake up again, it is 7am. Rusty is already up and about. I kiss him good morning. I didn’t sleep much last night, he says. I make toast, coffee and pour out some grape juice we bought from a farmers’ market yesterday. I will need to get some berries for tomorrow. We’re out of soy milk also.

When Rusty came home last night, I was already asleep. At midnight, I felt him crawl into bed with me, and his warm body. He was having another fever. By dawn he had sweat through three T-shirts. His fever finally broke at 7am. He is now sleeping in the living room, where it is cooler.

Our breakfast is waiting in the fridge.

Part of getting use to life back in New York is getting use to being a full-time care-giver again. I cook, clean, make sure the apartment is sanitary and try to give Rusty a comfortable home. Every day, there are almost 40 pills in the morning to get ready, temperatures to watch out for, gods to pray to at night.

This relative opulence of the apartment is nice, and in some ways is a perfect metaphor for our life. Every expense is an investment for the future we must live now. The cancer may rob our future, but it will not hijack our present.

In the meantime, anyone care for a dance?

Soundtrack

Sing Me A Swing Song (And Let Me Dance), by Ella Fitzgerald

by Yen Feng

Robin Raj’s Discount Store

The Indian man who sold me this toaster today on 14th and 3rd was barely comprehensible. I am sure he felt the same way about me. How do you describe toaster to someone who doesn’t understand what the word means?

“Toaster! Bread, hot, ding! Crispirunch! Yummm…”

My errands today are almost complete. For tomorrow’s breakfast, I’m planning to serve Rusty some nice (Crispirunch!) whole wheat toast with a selection of butter, honey and blueberry preserves. On the side, a bowl of organic raspberries, a cup of freshly squeezed carrot juice and some coffee.

The couch seems to be warming up to the toaster.

Craigslist shopping

So I didn’t make it to the bank.

I did, however, buy a juicer off someone on craigslist.This is the same juicer that I bought for Rusty when we were moving into our first apartment in Chelsea. I had read somewhere that carrot juice was effective in preventing melanoma. It was a lot of work (who knew juice came with pulp, and so much of it!) but a treat to be able to serve fresh carrot juice to Rusty every morning.

Before I left New York to return to Singapore last year, we gave the juicer away to Gilda’s Club. Those who are familiar with comedian Gilda Radner of Saturday Night Live fame will know she died of cancer in 1989. The club, found in major cities in the US, provides members suffering from cancer a place for support and care.

Apple juice anyone? The bank will be open tomorrow.

Week in review

The apartment is slowly coming together. The wall is a lovely rich red, and each newly acquired piece of furniture is getting comfortable.

Yesterday the bowl of apples by the window-sill introduced himself to the new vintage armchair. The couch is less friendly. It appears to be of the strong, silent variety.

Rusty’s off to work this week and I am still trying to settle in. Above my head hovers a constellation of errand flies, telling me to get off my ass and start rooting myself in New York. There is a small drizzle outside. It’s almost 2pm, will I have time to make it to the bank?