Oct 19 2008
Life.Love.Cancer: Part II
Editor’s Note: This is part of a ten-part series written by The Butterfly Temptress.
For information on how you can help, please the introductory post or go directly to the http://thebutterflytemptress.com.
Click to read Life.Love.Cancer: Part 1
Even before the scan showed that the cancer had spread to my brain, I guess I knew something had changed. Headaches became more intense and far more frequent than the ones that usually accompanied radiation. I started forgetting things that I would normally never forget. (Anyone who knows me knows that I never forget anything- ever.) Instead of remaining positive, suddenly I was unable to smile or find even the slightest bit of joy in anything. I cried all the time, at any time, often for no reason.
Then there were the seizures. I didn’t know they were seizures. I would fall down the stairs and not remember doing it. I would pass out in the bathroom and wake up with my head against the door at an awkward angle, usually with my pants and underwear around my ankles. At first I didn’t tell my husband because I didn’t want him to worry. Soon enough there was no hiding them and he was taking time off of work to be with me.
The dynamics within our relationship were changing. What started out as an old-fashioned relationship where he was the man of the house and I was the woman who kept him in clean shirts and hot meals soon became old-fashioned in a completely different way. We began ordering more pizza and while I still tried to lay out his clothes for him every morning, it was him that started caring for me.
While we had always showered together on the days he worked from home or on the weekends, it soon became a necessity. He was determined to make sure that I was safe, that in the event that I had a seizure in the shower he would be there to make sure I was ok. He began to wash me from head to toe just as I’d washed him from head to toe every day since we’d moved in together. We were less like lovers every single day and it worried me.
I remember reading somewhere that 75% of marriages fail when one person is diagnosed with a terminal illness. That number haunted me. There were people at the hospital that came in every week to tell us that their spouses had left or brought up divorce. People who were madly in love suddenly weren’t. So, I did what any irrational and completely terrified individual would do; I offered him an out.
If we argued about the kids, I offered him an out. If I had a seizure before he left for work and he called in sick to stay home with me, I picked a fight and said whatever I had to say to make him want to leave. In my heart and in my head I was convinced that we would both be better off if he just skipped to the part where he left. That way, we were covered. If I died, he would be gone so he wouldn’t have to deal with it. If he decided he couldn’t handle my diagnosis, it was a non-issue because I’d already pushed him away. No matter what, there was always the out.
While I don’t remember the exact argument, I remember knowing in my heart that I’d finally pushed him away. I remember that July day when his shoulders slumped and his eyes dimmed. He’d had enough and I’d finally convinced him that I was right. So, he asked me to leave.
Looking back, I suppose I should have been relieved. I should have taken a deep breath and gone quietly. After all, he had finally taken the out that I had been offering all along. Instead, all I could do was cry. As I packed my clothes and comforted my girls, I sobbed. While I called my parents to come and get me, while I tried to think of all the things I’d have to do, while I silently wished for his arms around me, I cried.
When it was time for me to leave, I could see in his eyes that he wanted to take it back. I could tell that he was sorry for the entire argument. I remember wrapping my arms around him and telling him that I would love him forever, whether we were together or not. As I held him, I realized that all along all I had really wanted were his words of reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere. Instead, I’d pushed him away, pushed him to his breaking point and I was hearing him tell me good-bye.
On the drive to my parents’ house, all I could do was cry. My heart was shattered into a million pieces. The only person who had ever loved me and accepted me was the one person I’d managed to drive away. I didn’t think that it could ever be worked out but I hoped just the same.
That night, before everyone went to bed, I slipped off to use the computer. As I sat in front of the monitor with the cursor blinking on the blank page, I wondered if it would even make a difference. Instead of saying anything that I was thinking or feeling, I simply emailed him and told him that I had arrived safely and signed it as I’d signed every email since I’d met him.
It was a long night. I didn’t sleep and I didn’t want to. I wasn’t in my home, in my bed, with my husband. Sleep wasn’t happening. So I wrote and I cried and I prayed that it would all turn out the way it was supposed to.
When morning came I checked my email. He had replied to my email with short phrases and words that gave no indication of how he was feeling or where we would go from there. I was sad until I read his post script asking if he could call me.
Then I knew we would be ok. I knew in my heart of hearts that this whole cancer thing wouldn’t tear us apart. It would only make us stronger.
