TIME OUT

* Content Warning: Terminal Disease Discussion

TIME OUT

I don’t want to be strong today.

Today, I want to drink wine before five, not eat a healthy dinner, and not complete my evening workout, the one I do religiously because healthy living, the podcasts tell me, is life-elongating.

But not for him. Although he exercises daily, his life expectancy hasn’t elongated; it's diminished.

Today, after hearing his news, I offered my strength, offered him my support, and said all the things one’s supposed to say in these situations. You’re going to get through this. I’m here for you. We’ll fight this together.

I love you.

You said the right things, I tell myself. But I abruptly ended our call because tears broke from the vault, and my voice started to quiver, and everyone knows you shouldn't upset someone who received horrible news.

There really should be a handbook for terminal etiquette.

More than anything, I want to open that bottle of wine I saved for a rainy day because Stage Four sounds scary—despite his assurances that it’s slow-moving or slow-growing or whatever my four pages of hastily transcribed notes mean—and today is the rainiest day of all.

On tiptoes, I reach for the bottle on the shelf, and a landslide of pantry items tumble down. Plastic bag boxes, coffee filters, an insulated lunchbox. Fortunately, the bottle is unharmed.

As I pop the wine cork, an imagined weight creeps from my chest to my spine. With hunched shoulders, I grab a glass and pour. Wine drops splatter on the counter.

No matter. I'll clean the mess later.

I sniff, swallow, and wince. The liquid is sour and pungent on my tongue. My taste buds tingle as I welcome the drink.

Ten sips left—give or take a few.

My phone feels heavy when I lift it. I stare at the screen, knowing I should call him back now—soon—but first I must pull myself together and be certain I won’t break down.

“It’s going to be a challenging year,” my friend told me when I shared the news. “You’ll have to be strong,” she said. “Especially for him.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m trying.” I swear. I will.

Six sips left.

My fingers repeatedly type the word tease instead of these and realize that my alcohol buzz has set in.

Family members are texting, asking for updates, and I just want to drink this damn wine and turn back the calendar and not answer the phone and stay in bed and scream in my pillow.

Why didn’t he follow up with his doctor last year? Why didn’t he tell me sooner? How could he be so irresponsible? Maybe he would live longer than six years if he had been more vigilant with his health.

“Don’t beat up the cancer patient,” he pleaded when I asked him these questions.

My heart grew soft and small.

Stupid girl. He’s hurting. Don’t twist the knife deeper. Support is what he needs, not reprimanding. I’ve been stingy in doling out sympathy.

But how will I support him long distance? How can I help from a thousand miles away? Who will take him to his chemo infusions? Who will clean his house? Run errands? Make him soup when he’s ill?

I don’t trust myself with these responsibilities. It’s too much to think of at once. I’m not ready, not yet. Maybe soon.

Soon.

For better or for worse, they say.

I guess we’re doing worse for a while.

If only I could turn back time, my buzzed brain repeats. I’d go back to yesterday. Or the week before. Or New Year’s Eve when we lay in bed and made plans for the future, and he stroked my jaw and said, “I wish we could stay here forever.”

“Forever” isn’t supposed to be only six years.

If I could turn back time, I’d set the clock to the year I met him. Undo the wrong that followed. Force him to eat healthier. Get him to sleep more. Visit more. Join a gym. Follow up with his darned doctor.

Five sips left.

Focus on the positive, I tell myself. He has access to medical experts, and he’s not giving up. I’ll make every effort to be there with him. I’ll be a better girlfriend. A better nurse—advocate, friend, partner, proxy—whatever he needs. I’ll put my own wants aside and be a better human.

I promise. I promise. I promise I will.

If only it’ll help him get better.

Four sips—wait. Not yet.

He texts as I’m typing this, and I’m editing my misspellings because the wine is making my vision fuzzy, and it’s hard to get my thoughts down, but I need to put these words somewhere. I can’t let him hear them. I can’t tell him I’m scared. Scared for him, scared for us. 

Will there be an “Us” long-term? Dealing with two types of cancer simultaneously is going to be difficult. Plus, there are other factors to contend with. His Type 2 Diabetes and high blood pressure, for example.

How did he get so sick? He doesn’t eat fast food, doesn’t smoke, rarely drinks.

There are no guarantees, they say.

Earlier, when he mentioned the words, “Quality of life and metastasized,” my heart shattered like a vitreous plate hitting the floor. I knew what he meant. Negative thoughts are detrimental. He must remain positive, look on the bright side, manifest healing. That’s what the experts advise.

Don’t give up, I begged him. Hold on. Fight. Please.

Please.

Four sips left.

The wine buzz isn’t numbing me, not like I hoped. Panicked thoughts scramble my brain. I should’ve eaten a salad. I should’ve gotten on the treadmill. I should’ve gone outside for a walk. I need to be a better girlfriend, one that’s healthy, happy, and supportive, not selfishly sipping wine, worrying if we’ll ever be intimate again. Worrying his beautiful hair will fall out. Worrying he will be too sick to help me when I’m older. Worrying, I’m a horrible person for even thinking such things. He’s the one suffering, not me.

Three sips left.

I stare at one of our framed pictures and feel a pinprick in my gut.

Look at his thick, pretty hair.

Two sips.

I’m awake yet slightly sluggish. My stomach is warm and tingly. I’m not used to drinking. Not often. Not alone.

I lift my hand and swirl the burgundy-colored puddle at the bottom of my glass. The little voice in my head, the one that’s been telling me I’m a horrible person, says, pour out the wine, wash your face and sober up, but my fingers need to release these words somewhere and my heart needs to heal a little before I call him back, lest he hears the grief in my voice.

Last sip.

Empty glass.

Deep breath.

I smile and reach for my phone.