Sadness and love
Week in review
It’s true what people say about a man dying. First, your appetite goes. Then, your body. It starts to shut down; the senses leave you. The heart stops.
I don’t remember a specific moment when I believed Rusty was going to die, though in retrospect that seems irresponsible. It was obvious to anyone who looked at him. In the last weeks, he had lost so much weight his face was carved bone. He was in a wheelchair. He couldn’t climb stairs.
But I never saw it. In my mind I kept waiting for the good news that would set us free from this disease. In my head I imagined how we would react when the doctors tell us the cancer had shrunk. We would hug, our crying heads buried in our bodies, then go on a long trip to celebrate. It would be a life suffused with new hope and expectancy. I imagine that’s what the phrase means, a new lease on life.
That never happened. Instead, with each monthly scan I saw my lover’s body slump into dejection, his spirit expiring. Hope waned as our numbers became increasingly dire.
But we kept what little hope we had close, and believed fervently in our future. After years of being terrorized with fear, all we wanted was a peaceful life together, away from the hospitals and their needles. So, we fought back. At each bad turn, we armed ourselves with research and resolve. We battled with vigilance and pride. Rusty and I were not used to losing. The core of our strength was our partnership, a mutual belief that having beaten the odds in our personal lives, we would be able to apply that principle to beating cancer.
In fact, one might even argue the odds were in our favor. We had the intelligence to seek out the best doctors and weigh the effectiveness of different treatment options, the money to pay for them, and at the end of the day, love as our buoy in this sea of uncertainty.
On the day he died, Rusty still wanted to live. He said to me at the hospital, “I’ll stay one more night, get better, and then we’ll go home, ok?” I nodded. “We’ll go home tomorrow,” I said.
I don’t think we ever stopped believing. In his last sleep, I think Rusty still expected to wake up. He would smile, wink his exaggerated wink at me, then ask if I would bring him some tea. We would go home. I would sit next to him while we held hands and watched TV. Soon, we would fall asleep. A new day would start.
I haven’t stopped believing. In my mind, I know he is dead. But in my heart, he is alive as he was the first day I met him. He is still my man. I still worry about him. I wonder if he’s thirsty, if anyone is bringing him his tea. In my sleep I call out for him. His toothbrush is still by the bathroom sink. His T-shirts have been cleaned, folded, and put in his closet. I feel him with me, inside me, when I am alone, or with friends.
My love is stronger with each passing day of his death. As I acquaint myself with grief, I discover new depths of our love. Now that the daily rituals of medicine are over, there is time to live in the thick of my sadness. My sadness began when he was diagnosed, became stronger as we loved each other. And now, I must learn to cherish this sadness as an expression of our love.
June 10th, 2007 at 12:22 pm
I read “Tuesdays with Morrie” at the urging of my cousin, who is now gone. This line will stay with me forever, “Love is how you stay alive, even after you are gone.”
Jesse IS still alive in you Yen. He’s in your heart and in your soul and in the hearts and souls of all of us who read your blog.
God bless you, Yen.
Love,
Laurie
June 10th, 2007 at 12:28 pm
I loved this article. I hope it gives you some comfort.
“After the first death, there is no other,” wrote Dylan Thomas. That doesn’t mean the ones that come after won’t break your heart, but it’s the first that punches your soul’s passport. Welcome, fellow human, to a different country than the one you woke up to this morning. The air’s different here; so is the scenery. Your knees don’t work so well; in fact, you may want to fall to them.
For a precious little while, you are allowed to be stunned into silence, or to shriek, or to talk—recounting stories of who he was, what she meant to you, and how it all came to an end. Tell those stories. Some people may try to enforce “The Rules,” to wit: Enough of This Drama Is Enough. Ignore them. Besides, if you treat yourself gently and take the time you need, someday soon you’ll hear the faint but steady voice of your own good sense. Play music you love, sit in the sunshine if you can find some, and if anyone offers you a hand, hold it. Let them feed the cat, too, because they want to be useful. If your good sense does not kick in on its own, help it along: scramble some eggs. It will feel strange at first. But if you pretend that scrambling eggs is normal, eventually it will become normal. Soon you can squeeze some orange juice, too.
For some of us the stay in this new country seems endless. But time passes, seasons change, and, truly, would those we grieve for want us to mope? Come with me, back into the world. We’ll return to this land someday, all too soon, but in the meantime the garden needs weeding, the bills need paying. Your other loved ones need you. And you, my sweet friend, you could use a shampoo. —Larkin Warren
June 13th, 2007 at 2:28 am
I am so sorry for your loss.
I just found your blog. Reading your recent posts made me think back to when I lost my partner 12 years ago — it brought up some of the old pain — I’m sitting here wiping away some tears.
Jesse was very lucky to have you.
The good news is that it will get easier — it will take time, and you will always miss him, but it will not be so painful.