Diagnosis

Four weeks ago you were up all night. Vomiting. This has happened from time to time during our quarter century together. You're very loud and the sound is unmistakable. I was leaving for a big 40th reunion two days later, and I was worried you had a stomach flu I would catch. After all those months of anticipation, I couldn't imagine myself seeing people for the first time in so many years and then possibly throwing up on them. I had dieted, I had exercised, I had changed my skin-care program, Laura had colored my hair just perfectly, and I was looking better than I had in years. So were you. For six months you and I had gone bicycling, and it had become our new passion. I said that I had started riding my bicycle and lost my ass. We were healthy and fit, and I was ready to see my old classmates. I hadn't wanted to look good, I had wanted to look fabulous. With your 'flu', I kept my distance from you!

My reunion was wonderful. You didn't go with me. You don't like reunions, won't even go to your own. You let me have this space; you always have. How secure you must feel in this strange and unusual marriage we have! I reconnected with people I hadn't seen in decades. I had three days of sheer pleasure. And then, in a post-reunion funk, I finally dragged myself back home. You were at a class but arrived home twenty minutes after I did. You were sick to your stomach again. This time you thought you had gotten some bad ravioli at lunchtime. I thought that sounded quite likely. How you love to eat! It has been both a joyous pasttime and an out-of-control addiction for you. I imagined you going out to eat before your photography class and scarfing down a giant helping of pasta pockets stuffed with chicken and smothered in marinara sauce. I wouldn't have been able to keep that down either-----and I can keep up with you in the eating department.

That night I wasn't worried about your health. I was worried about your relationship with Dad. Dad and his inability to stop criticizing. Dad who moved in with us last year weak, in a wheelchair, hooked up to a catheter, and so frail, so vulnerable, so sweet and grateful for every little thing we did for him. Dad who somehow morphed back into his critical, overly-planned and orderly self. How he sees joy in judging others is a mystery to me, and it irritates you no end. Dad had criticized you to a friend of yours while I had been gone. Your friend had been upset and had shared some of it with you. Dad couldn't remember he had done it. His mind is going; he's eighty nine. In reality, not much is working too well with Dad. We have times when we aren't able to let go of his neurological misfirings. And beneath it all, the two of you are just very, very different people. Your physical descriptions can make you sound like twins, but face-to-face, and inside your heads, you couldn't be more different. You were beyond angry, But remember that you, too, can be very critical. No one seems to pass your tests easily, and all are open to your criticism, even those I deem eternally sweet. Are your projecting your dislike for your own critical nature onto my dad?

The next day you went to the doctor, our family doctor, the one who has managed to stay with our health care provider longer than any of our other doctors. The one I have not disliked, but the one I have like the least. He sent you home with Prilosec. Gee, that's what he had me on for seven years when I suffered from endless acid reflux. I'd still be on it today if I hadn't gone to Susan for a consult. The pills only diminished your desire to lose your food but did nothing to ease your pain.

On Friday I told you to go to the emergency room, "Tell those doctors to find out what is wrong with you, and not to send you home until they do. And don't let them give you any more prescriptions. They not won't fix you." And you said, "I can't believe I am sitting here listening to you tell me how to be assertive! My, how you've changed over the last few years!" When we first met, I wouldn't even ask a store clerk where the cereal was. And there was no way I would ever, ever make a return. Within a few months of dating, you had me reading When I Say 'No', I Feel Guilty. Yes, I've become a gutsy woman over the last few years. I can be assertive now.

You didn't come home for three days. They ran test after test on you. Each new ER doctor had a new diagnosis. I caught a cold on Saturday and wore one of my ninety-nine barrier masks to visit you. (Ah yes, the green snot brigade had claimed another victim!) My constant exposure to childhood maladies is a most unfortunate occupational hazard. By Sunday I wasn't welcome at the hospital. You came home on Sunday evening after you had finally had a CAT scan. They waited 40 hours for the barium from the 'barium swallow' to flush out of your system before they could do it. In the meantime they rehydrated you with an IV.

Laura, her boyfriend and my cousin from Ohio were here for Sunday supper. You asked if there was anything you could do to help. You were so happy, so glad to be home after three days in the hospital, so grateful for the company and the fellowship. We kept asking you what the CAT scan had revealed but you said it couldn't be read until Monday so they had let you go.

Then when Laura had left and all were in bed, we went into our room and you said, "We have to talk." And without waiting for anything from me, you said, "It's pancreatic cancer and there's nothing they can do. They can't operate on it because the tumor is right at a major blood source; it's too risky." There was so much else you said but it all floated by me. I wanted to hug you, to hold you like we do in tender moments, but I had a cold and was suddenly terrified of giving it to you. I dropped my head into my hands and I said, "Oh, no, oh, no." I was too stunned to speak. I shook my head slowly from side to side. Of all the cancers out there, of all the deaths I had just experienced, none had suffered from the dreaded pancreatic cancer. And all had died. From cancer. You then said you were going out to the hottub.

I sat in the room, trying to absorb your news. Finally I went out to the hottub, put my arms around you from behind and told you you are the love of my life, the most exciting man I have ever known, the most amazing lover I have ever had, and I am devastated by this news. In those brief words, I was able to capture the essence of my feelings about you. You took them in, and I could tell you felt good. It was one of the most tender moments of our lives. I retreated to the bedroom to nurse my cold and try to process your news.

You slept in the livingroom, just to be safe.