So the writing assignment for class today was: Write like you talk. Yeah, OK. Well lately when I talk I use a lot of what my strict Catholic grandma called "foul language." I curse a lot. It may seem lazy and sound angry. I don’t think I’m either of those things, but if looks like I am to other people I don’t fucking care. Grief looks like what it looks like. I’m not lazy, I’m paralyzed. I’m not angry, I’m heartbroken. However I sound or look to other people, I really don’t give a rat's ass. I’m just trying to survive. Actually that’s not true. I am trying to model survival for my son. He’s the one I am concerned about, not me. My daughter is a story for another day.
Maybe I should back up. Yeah, I curse a lot. My husband would say to me: “the use of profanity does not enhance your argument.” I’d tell him to fuck off. It was a little schtick we did. Did. Past tense. He’s dead… and I say fuck a lot. I’m not pissed though. I do say Fuck Cancer angrily, but everyone says it that way, don’t they? I have no energy to be angry. I never did. I was too busy trying to keep him alive… and when all chemo and radiation and surgery and living in a darkened hotel room in Boston, and later running around the country (on what I called our “shopping for hope tour”) didn’t work… when the cancer came back with a vengeance anyway and we tried a different chemo and then finally immunotherapy… when ALL that was going on, I was never angry. I wasn’t paralyzed then either. I was on a mission.
A dear friend helped connect us to the best surgeon in the country for my husband's type of cancer, at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, attached to Harvard. I let those hard-ass Boston Irish nurses taunt me while I tried to learn to operate the pump attached to his feeding tube. “Looks like you’re pretty nervous about this, aren’t you? Squeamish, huh?” I knew they wanted to get a rise out of me, but I was not going to let them make me mad or make me cry, though both seemed appealing. I just bit my own tart Irish tongue and told them “show me again. I’ll get it.” And I did get it. I set my alarm to ring every 4 hours around the clock so I could go into the hotel bathroom, measure out the liquid medications, then cut and grind the pills, pulverizing them, dissolving them in water, pouring the solution through a tea strainer provided by room service so no chunks would clog the feeding tube and send us to the ER (as happened on the first day after my husband came “home” to the hotel from the hospital). He wasn’t happy with me that day or a lot of other days during that month. He was often furious during that November spent living in a suite overlooking Boston Common — even a Ritz Carlton can be a prison — and he took it out on his only available target, me. But I understood. He couldn’t eat. He was scared and suffering. He was fighting for his life. He was determined to live. He really thought if he came at cancer with the same focus and drive that had made him such a success in business, he couldn’t possibly die. But he died. He was diagnosed on July 14, 2015… and he died on March 27, 2017. He went through hell. He fought like hell. They took out 1/3 of his stomach and 2/3 of his esophagus, and he was willing to live a horrible, diminished existence just to stay alive. Just to be here with me and the kids. But the cancer ended up in his lungs and his ribs and God knows where else and he lost 130 lbs. and he wasted away and he fucking died.
A dear friend helped connect us to the best surgeon in the country for my husband's type of cancer, at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, attached to Harvard. I let those hard-ass Boston Irish nurses taunt me while I tried to learn to operate the pump attached to his feeding tube. “Looks like you’re pretty nervous about this, aren’t you? Squeamish, huh?” I knew they wanted to get a rise out of me, but I was not going to let them make me mad or make me cry, though both seemed appealing. I just bit my own tart Irish tongue and told them “show me again. I’ll get it.” And I did get it. I set my alarm to ring every 4 hours around the clock so I could go into the hotel bathroom, measure out the liquid medications, then cut and grind the pills, pulverizing them, dissolving them in water, pouring the solution through a tea strainer provided by room service so no chunks would clog the feeding tube and send us to the ER (as happened on the first day after my husband came “home” to the hotel from the hospital). He wasn’t happy with me that day or a lot of other days during that month. He was often furious during that November spent living in a suite overlooking Boston Common — even a Ritz Carlton can be a prison — and he took it out on his only available target, me. But I understood. He couldn’t eat. He was scared and suffering. He was fighting for his life. He was determined to live. He really thought if he came at cancer with the same focus and drive that had made him such a success in business, he couldn’t possibly die. But he died. He was diagnosed on July 14, 2015… and he died on March 27, 2017. He went through hell. He fought like hell. They took out 1/3 of his stomach and 2/3 of his esophagus, and he was willing to live a horrible, diminished existence just to stay alive. Just to be here with me and the kids. But the cancer ended up in his lungs and his ribs and God knows where else and he lost 130 lbs. and he wasted away and he fucking died.
And now I am back living in L.A. trying to keep my kid going. He’s devastated at the loss of his dad, who was also his best friend. I’m not all that happy to be back in L.A.— I was comfortable living at the beach in Encinitas. Life was easy there. But my son is here. And I knew if I stayed where I was, I would stay where I was. I am trying to move forward, but it’s fucking hard. It’s been almost 2 years, but it might as well have been two weeks. I work at cultivating gratitude. I had a great love for nearly 25 years. My husband arranged to have flowers sent to me all during the year after he died. He was THAT guy. But he’s gone and I have to keep going. I have no idea where I fit in the world anymore. I had a huge, exciting life. Now my life is small and quiet. No whining, just adjustment. So I am here. Trying to prop up my son, who struggled to find his way even before his Dad died. Not uncommon for sons of hugely charismatic, successful fathers… especially if the kid is on the quiet side, a musician who lives in his head. So I am here because I adore my son. I get up every morning and try to show him how to face the unknown. Suit up and show up as we say in sobriety. Together we try to find peace, and even happiness, every. fucking. day. And I am here.
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