A feeling of foreboding creeps over me, reminding me that there will soon come a day when that side of the bed will be empty forever. I have no idea how I’m going to face that I can hardly stand the thought of it now, much less the reality of it then.
Walking quietly over to where Lena sleeps, I squat down beside her, staring at the beautiful face, all dreamy and tranquil in repose. I memorize the arch of her brows, the scoop of her nose, the way her long eyelashes make crescents on the high blades of her cheekbones. I etch into my brain the texture of her skin, the smooth line of her jaw, and the shape of her mouth.
Those lips…
If I close my eyes, I can feel how they soften when I kiss them, I can practically see how they spread when she smiles.
I will never forget that. Forget her.
Any small detail.
My gaze moves down the graceful shoulders and the gently moving chest to the stomach she holds with one hand, even while she sleeps. As much as I wish I could, I know I’ll never be able to forget this either—her disease, her pain. What cancer is doing to the woman I love.
I bow my head, and my tears fall in absolute silence.
Eleven
Gotta Have a Reason
Nate
Another six weeks later and I’m pushing open the door that leads from the garage into the kitchen and stepping back so that Lena can go in first. We are home.
I notice the way she pauses on the threshold and inhales deeply, her shoulders lifting and then dropping slowly as she savors the scent. Europe was wonderful, but I know she’s glad to be back at our house, our sanctuary.
There’s no place like home. Our home.
She turns and gives me a grin. “Home sweet home, baby.” She stretches up on her tiptoes and kisses me, a quick peck of the lips. I’ll miss that, more than she will ever know. The casual kisses, the second-nature touches, the intimate glances—I’ll miss them all.
I’ll miss her. Like I’d miss air if it was taken from me.
I swallow and muster a crooked smile for her. Always for her.
“Home is wherever you are, but I have to admit that I missed this place. The coffee isn’t as good here, but…”
Lena laughs and elbows me in the ribs before she moves on through the door. “Take that back or I won’t be making you any coffee, good or bad.”
“I take it back,” I supply amicably.
I stand, still technically in the garage, and watch my wife. Her gait is a little less energetic today.
Grief clutches my heart as I wait for her to move slowly into the living room. She flops down onto the couch and exhales loudly, letting her arms fall to the side and her head drop back.
She’d been so full of life on almost every one of our days in Europe, it’s hard to see this. For me, the trip will always be bittersweet in more ways than I’d originally suspected. Having my old Lena back—the carefree, fun-loving, energetic one I met nineteen years ago—will make losing her, losing the woman I’ve always known her to be, that much harder. It’s like watching her die twice. Once slowly, day by day, and the other…
I turn from the sight, my chest tight with barely controlled emotion. “I’ll get the luggage,” I mutter, hurrying back to the car. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through this next part. I just know that I will.
For Lena, I will.
Always for Lena.
I would do anything for her.
********
Lena
Since I’m so tired, Nate offers to go to the grocery store to pick up some food and necessities. I’m more than happy to let him. Not only am I truly exhausted, but I also have an important phone call to make, and he can’t be around when I do.
The instant Nate’s car turns out of the driveway, I race to my phone and pull up the contact information for my gynecologist, who is also an obstetrician. I pray Dr. Stephens will be able to work me in at some point over the next couple of days. I already have an appointment with my oncologist next week, and I thought it would be a good idea to get input from both specialists as soon as possible. They’ll have to work together, I’m sure. This will be a delicate dance if it can be pulled off. I need to have them both on board.
But I’m skeptical. Scheduling this close to Christmas will be tight, and seeing me on short notice might be an issue. It is already December twenty-first after all.
Although I hate to do it (and very rarely do), I pull the “I’m a nurse practitioner, and I need to speak with the doctor as soon as possible” card, and it works. I’m put on hold for three minutes, and the next person to come on the line is Dr. Stephens.
Using vague terms like “condition” and “illness” in explaining my situation to Dr. Stephens, who is familiar with our struggles to get pregnant, she’s more than willing to work me in on December twenty-third. She might regret having done that when I tell her the details of what I’m looking at.
When I hang up the phone, I expel a breath it feels like I’ve been holding for weeks. Soon my questions will be answered, my mind will be eased, and I will have a certain path forward. Then I can get on with living the last days of my life. And hopefully giving life to another in the process.
Giving my life for another.
Giving my death meaning.