Bitter Pills

This story contains the following sensitive subjects, which may be troubling for some readers:

Mental ill-health and suicide, physical ill-health including terminal illness and cancer, description of illnesses and medication.

George could remember their first kiss. Chaste, and sweet—quietly stolen and secretly kept. The first of many, he was glad of that. Each one held more love than the last, something George always thought was remarkable. He had loved Lucy long before their first kiss; since she had been a young girl in pigtails and he a knock-kneed twerp in short trousers. But the wait until their teenage years had made it all the sweeter. 

Of course, like any other couple, they had their ups and downs. The months and years after each of their children arrived were hard, when Lucy couldn’t bear to be touched, let alone held, and kisses were reserved for sticky cheeks and bruised knees. 

But there were many, many more good times than there were bad. Raising the children, watching them become adults and find loves of their own—even if some of that love was unconventional. However love came, George and Lucy embraced it together. 

Jobs changed, and many beautiful grandchildren arrived, houses and cars were bought and sold. A spider plant bought in their first year of marriage bloomed and grew and became a great-great-grandparent in its own right, under Lucy’s tender care. 

George would do anything for her. There was no job too big, no task too herculean. Send the boars, the bulls; send lions and birds, too. He would spend a millennium sweeping stables and catch a thousand golden-antlered deer. He worshipped her, purely and simply. 

“George,” Lucy said softly. “Where have you got to?” 

Her eyes twinkled as she gently brought him out of his reverie. He smiled at the sight of her, feet propped up, crossword book in hand, glasses perched precariously on the tip of her nose. Even the short, white hair she now sported didn’t age her. She would always be the slip of a thing that had invited him to kiss her, all those years ago. 

“Thinking about us, dear. Always thinking about us.” 

“You spend more time remembering than you do living, George. Join me in the present for a while?” 

George nodded and sat up straighter, and gave her his full attention. As if she had ever deserved anything less. 

“Seven across, six letters. They say this makes the heart grow fonder.” 

George’s smile twisted as he tried to swallow the painful lump in his throat. “You know this one, love.” 

“But do you?”

“Absence. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” 

George hid the way his insides twisted. He couldn’t let her see. Although she knew better than anyone what absence could do, would do. The devastation it would wreak. She had spoken to the family, to nurses, to friends, to their pastor. And she had spoken to George. Lucy had made her peace. 

But she wouldn’t be the one whose heart would grow fonder. She was the one who got to leave. She would move onto another plane of existence, a place of perfect love and contentment. She would know nothing but peace while she waited for George. That was the plan, what she had told George she anticipated. 

George would be left behind. That was the plan.

Angiosarcoma. 

They say the more syllables, the worse it is. George was inclined to agree. It moved quickly, it resisted treatment, and it had spread. 

He blamed himself. He should have known somehow. When he held Lucy in his arms, the sickly smell of the disease should have alerted him. He should have seen it in her eyes, in her smile, when the first cell had branched off and spread. Something in her laugh should have clued him, a rattle, a whisper. 

When death laid his hand upon Lucy’s breast, he should have sucker-punched him away. 

To his shame, he blamed Lucy, too. She had felt something wasn’t right but done nothing. She’d told him after the doctor’s appointment. It was only when discomfort and bruising became an oozing sore that she made that phone call. When clothes ripped at her damp and open flesh; when the sweet smell of decay became her perfume. 

It was hard not to be angry with her. And so he tried not to. He didn’t want the short time they had left together to be tainted by something that had darkened their doorstep so few times. 

“I’m going to bed, love.” George got to his feet and moved to his wife and sat for a moment beside her. “I love you. Take your time.” 

“Goodnight, dear,” Lucy answered warmly. George kissed her hand before he kissed her cheek. Finally, he pressed his lips to hers. Chastely, and sweetly, another kiss quietly stolen and freely given. 

A cherished routine. One he would surely and sorely miss. 

George washed his hands and face and placed his dentures in a glass to soak. Before he got into bed, he sat on its edge and counted out his tablets. Blood pressure, heart rhythm, and countless medications designed to keep him ticking as he should. 

1, 2, 3, 4, 5. 

He swallowed each with a sip of water, taking each down quickly so he didn’t have to taste it. The bitter, powdery tang of his blood pressure tablets always lingered and caught in his throat so he took all of those first. 

6, 7, 8, 9, 10. 

More tablets slipped down the hatch. 20. 30. He had done the maths himself. It would be quite sufficient. More than enough, in fact. He would fall asleep. Most likely, it wouldn’t be questioned. He hoped it wouldn’t. Let everyone believe him to be a better man than he was, rather than the selfish coward he was ashamed of becoming. 

He simply could not bear to let her go first. 

The door swung open and George jumped. He quickly brushed the empty sachets and packets into his drawer. 

“Hello, love,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come up.” 

“Thought I’d join you,” Lucy smiled blithely. She wore her loose nightgown, the bandages on her chest still visible beneath. “Fancy a cuddle?”

George nodded. He didn’t trust his voice. He slid into the bed beside his wife of so, so many years and slid his arms around her. Another well-practiced routine. He pressed his lips to her temple and breathed in the smell of her. Lavender, coal-tar, face cream. He wanted to remember that smell. He wanted to bathe in it. 

And let her remember this embrace. For however long she had left, however long it would be before she joined him, he wanted her to hold onto it. 

As he grew dizzy and his thoughts misty, he lifted her chin and once more kissed her lips. Let her remember this. When the night is cold, when she has spent the day alone, let the phantom of his love for her echo and soothe her as he couldn’t in life. If he could have one wish, it would be that his love, nurtured and tended for decades, would wrap around her. Be it a blanket or shroud, it would envelop and keep her until his arms could once more.