In sickness, mostly
Sunday, July 25 2010
The Queen of Optimism asks: “Who has made a positive difference in your life and what did they do?”
In May of 2006 I’d just been released from the hospital, when my doctor asked me to come in for a follow-up. “We think you might have cancer,” he said. “You need to go see a surgeon.” I was unfazed – there are a lot of things worse than cancer, e.g. my life at that point. Still, I made an appointment with the surgeon for the following month. “You almost certainly have cancer,” he insisted. ‘Overbearing’ doesn’t begin to describe this doctor: “We just need to do a test to confirm, and then we’ll take out your colon, give you an ostomy, and start you on chemotherapy. You need to tell your loved ones right now: you could die.”
Like the man said…. when? I hoped soon, but I knew I didn’t have cancer.
Telling the parents was easy: this guy wants my colon for his trophy case, but he’s wrong. Telling the bright spot in my life was harder: so, ah, you know I was in the hospital? Well, one of the doctors is worried I might have cancer, and that would mean some operations, and things could get pretty rough. I didn’t tell her that there was no way I was going to take fucking chemo; I’ve seen that show, and have no desire to star in it.
I had known her for only a few months, and we’d been dating seriously maybe six weeks. No way anybody would sign up for this willingly. I expected her to bolt. I wanted her to bolt. I had to clear the decks so that I was ready for whatever happened, so I would hurt or inconvenience as few people as possible. No tears for me, please: I was ready to go.
She stayed on, though – which was a wrench in my plans. Are you sure you want to do this? “I’ll just see how long I can take it” – which was fair, I suppose. Why are you at all attracted to me; can’t you see I’m a sinking ship? She mumbled something about my Byronic charm; I can only hope that one day medical science recognizes the tremendous damage done by the steady diet of 19th century novels we feed young women in this country, after which you won’t be able to buy Austen, Chopin, or any Bronte sister without paperwork from the FDA.
I was totally serious about dying. I was doing a dismal job at living, and thought maybe it was time to try my hand at something else. Her decision to stick around was a major hassle; I remember thinking that stupid, obstinate woman had no idea what she was doing.
But she stayed through it all: shuttled me to examination room, shared the unsurprising relief that I did not have cancer after all, visited me in the hospital for my next bout, when the doctor insisted I get surgery anyway. She went with me to my hometown, met my parents, and then came back to visit me after the operation. She spent a weekend with my family, while I was back in the hospital with a minor complication.
Three years after that, she made the best decision compromise of her life by actually marrying me. In a church. With legal documents. You know that saying about saving a life in China – how it makes you responsible for the person for the rest of his life? Welcome to the rest of my life, Mrs. Cross.
And on the days when I remember I am a hideous monster, I also remember that she married me, and she could have done better. I find the thought redeeming.
That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. She kept me from giving up. She kept me here. And I hope someday that she will do the second-nicest thing anyone can do for me: let me go.
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