One moment in time

Today…

Her eyes are closed to the glare of the dying sun. She is lying back in the boat, humming a song; her arms are stretched over its sides, her fingers are trailing lazily in the water. I lie across from her, our legs intertwining. I can’t stop myself staring at her, from periodically caressing her legs.

I am reassuring myself that she is here, for today she is here. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow but today at least she is here, she is still with me. I wish I’d brought the camera; I want to capture this moment, freeze it in time. I find myself wanting to do that a lot, freeze time. Stop it completely so we’ll always be together. I find myself also wanting to delete time, erase certain moments, those unpleasant moments in life that seem to happen in a second but affect you forever. I would erase such moments; make it so they never occurred.

For instance I would like to erase that awful day. The day the doctor told us that she had glioblastoma multiforme, an aggressive form of brain cancer. I remember sitting in Dr Roberts office, listening to him tell us that the tests had shown that Lisa had a brain tumour, and that it was an inoperable brain tumour. I remember it like it was yesterday, not like the 7 months ago that it really was.

7 months ago…

The doctor’s office is like most other doctor’s offices. Off-white walls with soothing pictures of flowers and streams hung up next to the medical certificate that assures us that he is qualified to give the diagnosis he is currently giving. I want to interrupt, halt him in mid-flow and shout at him like a child to take it back. But I know he is right. We both do, Lisa and I. We have known for a while that something wasn’t right, the headaches that are increasing in frequency, the blurred vision, the dizziness and nausea. This is one time however that I will gladly accept being proven wrong.

            “Do you understand the options I have given you?” the doctor asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I realise that he and Lisa have gone past the diagnosis and are discussing treatment options. Lisa assures him that she does understand and she will get back to him as soon as we have discussed the options further at home. She seems quite calm which is a far cry from what I am feeling. I have hardly said a word since the diagnosis was given and I don’t say much on the car ride home nor for the rest of the evening. I want to say something, I want to reassure my wife that all will be well but I am finding it hard to process anything, I don’t know what to say and so after a quiet supper we go to bed.

It’s 4 am and I am tossing and turning in bed. This has been the norm for me since we got the diagnosis 3 days ago. Giving up on sleep, I decide to get out of bed and head downstairs to the kitchen. I know Lisa is finding it hard to sleep as well but I feel like I need solitude to get myself together before facing her. I am ashamed of myself, of my behaviour for the last few days. I haven’t been there for her, I know I have been in shock but I don’t think that is a good enough excuse for not being there for her. After all she is the one with the tumour and if I am feeling this way, scared, knotted up, confused and angry inside, God only knows how she must be feeling. We both heard the statistics from Dr Roberts, the average life expectancy for Lisa’s tumour is less than a year. The treatment options, the radiotherapy and the chemotherapy, give us maybe, maybe an extra month or two.

For the last few days I have been veering between laughter and tears. Right now I don’t know whether to scream at the gods or throw myself at their feet and plead for mercy. I settle for switching on the percolator and I sit at the island in quiet contemplation. I find I am pleading in the quietness of my heart, asking God to change things somehow, anyhow. A phone call from Dr Roberts saying there had been a mix up with the tests results; a realisation that it’s all a bad dream and I am going to wake up any second and find Lisa sleeping peacefully next to me; anything at all to change things, make this awful nightmare disappear.

I look up as Lisa walks into the room; she pauses at the door and looks at me with a question in her eyes. I hold out my hand to her in silent answer and she steps into my arms. As always I am astounded by the depth of my love for this woman. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever met, and it’s not just her outward beauty, though that’s impressive on its own. Her dark brown hair that falls thick and heavy to her shoulders like a silky curtain, her brown eyes that glow amber whenever she becomes animated, her lips which always seem to be quirked in a half smile like she knows this wonderful joyous secret.

 I fell in lust with her looks but I fell in love with her personality, her character, her essence. Lisa is one of those people who are eternally optimistic; her cup is always half-full. She sees the best in people and the sun is always shining in her world. I’m the opposite, my glass is half-empty and I am always waiting for the other shoe to drop, looking for the pitfalls in every situation and the flaw in every person. She balances me, makes me see that the world is not so dark and I cannot imagine my life without her. I make her sound like she’s perfect but believe me she’s not. She has the fieriest temper this side of the Atlantic, lord knows I’ve been on the receiving end of it many times. And when she lets it loose, it’s a struggle for her to rein it in.

I wish she would unleash that temper now, rage at the injustice of it all. But she’s quiet, standing very still in my embrace. We stay like this for a long time. Eventually she stirs and asks me if we can talk about the treatment options Dr Roberts gave us, so we sit down with our coffee and discuss it.

“Jason…” she says, her voice faltering “I don’t want to have any treatment”.

I stare at her in disbelief.

“What do you mean no treatment?” I ask.

She tells me she’s been thinking about it since the doctor’s office and she feels that since neither the radiation nor the chemotherapy is going to remove the cancer and cure her, she would rather not have them and save herself suffering through the horrible side-effects caused by both.

I want to change her mind, remind her that the doctor said the treatments could add a couple of months to the survival rate but I know it’s futile.  She has that look she gets when she has made up her mind about something, her eyes are fixed squarely on mine and her chin is jutting out slightly.

Inside I am shaking and scared but I smile and tell her I love her and will support her through whatever decisions she makes. She visibly relaxes and asks me with a smile whether I feel like pancakes for breakfast. I am not hungry but I say yes, I can tell she wants some normalcy after the awful few days we have had.

Today…

The sun is shining in the beautiful blue cloudless sky. It’s a glorious day and Lisa wants to take the boat out onto the lake so I am packing a picnic basket.

The tumour has taken its toll on Lisa. She has lost a lot of weight and her creamy coffee complexion has a permanent sallow hue. Her face always has a strained look to it because she gets these agonising headaches. The changes in Lisa are not only physical but mental and emotional as well. She suffers from memory loss and is constantly frustrated when she can’t remember what she’s doing or when words fail her. She’s not as sunny as she used to be so I try as much as possible to be sunny and chirpy for both of us but I am having a hard enough time with it myself, it’s hard watching my wife die slowly before my eyes.

But it’s a beautiful sunny day so we go out on the lake.

I lie across from her in the boat; she looks so peaceful, lying there humming. I feel a little at peace myself, in this boat on the lake. I’ll take whatever crumbs the gods toss my way so I’m grateful for today, for today she is still with me. I only wish I’d brought the camera.

Title- Whitney Houston