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

The name of the game

The pot was on the cooker, the water was boiling but Etta took no notice. She sat on the stool in the kitchen, lost in thought, staring at the book she held. At first glance she looked like she always did, tired and wrung out. Her head was bent downwards, her shoulders sagged. Her brown plaits were messy, the hands clutching the book were callused with short jagged nails. Her blue checked uniform was rumpled and stained. Today’s stain was courtesy of the palm oil splashes from cooking that morning’s breakfast. But if you looked closely you could see there was something different about her. She seemed to be glowing. Her skin was flushed and her brown eyes were sparkling as she sat remembering that morning’s events.

Early that morning, she had rushed from the parlour where she had been dusting to quickly answer the door as Uncle got annoyed if the doorbell rang for too long. She opened the door, greeted and curtsied like she usually did, her eyes cast downwards, not really taking any notice of who was standing there, waiting to hear whoever it was enquire after whomever they had come to see. But there was no response, so she looked up. It was him and he was staring at her again, looking at her as if he could see her, see Etta. But he didn’t see her she thought resignedly, they never do, so she waited for him to speak. He asked for Uncle so she took him to Uncle’s study to wait but as she turned away to go and resume her duties he called out to her.

‘I have something for you,’ he said opening the bag he was carrying.

He brought out a book, Wole Soyinka’s ‘The Trials of Brother Jero’, the book Aunty had seized from her the other day. She stood still, bewildered, staring at the hand holding the book out to her not quite sure what was happening or what to do.

‘Here,’ he said ‘Take it, I got it for you, I know how much you loved the other one.’

She took it, nodded towards him shyly and ran out of the room.

The water in the pot was hissing loudly, but Etta sat, very still, staring at the book in her hand; a smile playing on her face, wanting to settle but not knowing how. She let her fingers flip through the pages, seeing the words inside race by. She closed it and held it to her chest, her first ever gift, she thought to herself. She didn’t know how he knew about the book or why he had decided to get it for her. All she cared about was that someone had given her something, he had given her something. It was something for her, a gift for her. Someone had noticed her; someone had seen her, seen Etta!


Title - ABBA 

I need some distraction, oh beautiful release...

Today has been one of those days where I just want to be left alone. No questions, no company. I don’t want to laugh, I don’t want to chat, I just want to be. The only problem is that I also don’t want to think and being left alone means I run the risk of doing nothing but thinking.

I really just want to escape from it all, my life, my thoughts, from me.

Unfortunately I don’t have any vice that would permit me to embark on such an escape, I don’t drink and I don’t do drugs. Having said that I find I am developing a friendly relationship with Lexotan and Tylenol PM. It’s a good thing I don’t have an addictive personality and that I am also of a cautious fearful nature.

I wish I could lose myself in my writing but I am in the throes of writers block and absolute disinterest in everything. I find inspiration in nothing and lose concentration too easily.

I really just want to escape for a while. I’ve given up on the idea of change, at some point one just has to accept shit for what it is and deal. However it would be nice to escape. Just for a little while.

Where are the abducting aliens when you need them?


So in the absence of alcohol/drugs/aliens I decided I would get a jump on this blog thingy which a friend convinced me to try...thanks Segs.

Not sure I have that much to blog about or that I really understand the concept of blogging so in the absence of joining twitter welcome to my diary of thoughts/views/rants/short stories.

I am going to apologise in advance for irregular postings unless of course I become addicted to the concept...ha ha look at me assuming anybody is going to see or read my blog.

Anyway so...well I started writing short fiction properly last year and have written a few stories which I'll post here. Unfortunately as stated above I am suffering from writers block at the moment and as its been going on for about 3 months now, I'm not sure when I'll get to writing fiction again. Which after reading my stories people may decide might be a good thing after all.


P.S - title of my posts are songs or lyrics from songs, this one is from Angel by Sarah McLachlan.