After a weak attempt at another smile, Nissa only nods in agreement. I imagine that her throat is thick and shaky with emotion.
“Also, Nate and I are making videos. All kinds of videos of anything and everything. I’d love for you to be in some of them.”
“I’d adore that. And with me in its life, at least your baby will grow up with a good sense of style.”
“That’s definitely something you bring to the table. As long as, if it’s a girl, you never pack your things in her suitcase for a trip. I’d like for you and Nate to be able to keep her off the pole as long as possible.”
At that, Nissa laughs. “Are you saying I packed you stripper clothes?”
“I’m saying stripper clothes were modest compared to a few of the things you packed for me.”
“But did Nate like them?”
“Of course Nate liked them! He does have eyes and a penis.”
“Then what’re you complaining about?”
We grin at each other, slipping easily back into the familiar comfort of our friendship. The rocky moment has passed, and now we will move on. As Nate and I have discovered, there is no place for anger now, when time is so drastically limited. We are unwilling to give it one second of such valuable space. Nissa, too, will realize that soon enough, if she hasn’t already.
Fifteen I’ll be There for You Nate
For two months, things feel like a happier version of normal for Lena and me. It’s easy to get lost in plans for the baby or details of the pregnancy and forget that my wife is dying and that no one knows how soon her condition will start to deteriorate. We do know, however, that once it starts to decline, there is nothing we can do to stop it.
The doctors are limited. We have limited them. We’ve tied their hands. They will only be able to treat Lena the best they can with medicines and therapies that won’t harm the baby. She always seems okay with that, though. More than okay, actually. It’s from her, from her calm certainty, that I’ve been drawing a lot of my strength lately.
I don’t ever feel completely convinced that we’ve made the right choice. Then again, it was never really mine to make. Not totally, anyway.
Each day, we make at least one video for the baby, transferring them from phone to computer and then saving them to a flash drive for safekeeping. I admit that I’m almost obsessive about backing up those precious moments. Each time I download one and save it to the external drive, I watch it over and over a few times, falling more and more hopelessly in love with my wife as I do. I’m not sure how smart that is, signing up for even more pain when there’s plenty to go around already, but it’s out of my control.
Lena is irresistible.
Still, some small, overly-rational part of my brain thinks it might be wise to try to distance myself a little bit as time goes on, but I refuse to back away from Lena no matter how much grief it might save me in the end. I know perfectly well that loving her so much knowing that I will surely lose her will be the hardest thing I’ve ever have to deal with in my whole damn life. I also know, however, that I wouldn’t trade these last days, weeks, months with her for all the gold (or comfort and painlessness) in the world. I’m content to throw myself wholly into our life, into our love, and into the growth of our baby until the very last day.
Until the end.
So I continue taping and downloading, taping and downloading, watching the videos over and over and over again on nights when I can’t sleep, knowing that one day the short clips will be all that I have left of my wife besides our child and the memories I have stored away in my mind. None will be as clear as the videos, though. That’s why I protect them fiercely.
One beautiful spring-like morning in early March, Lena and I are enjoying our morning ritual of coffee (decaf for Lena) with our breakfast of eggs and toast when the back door bursts open. I’d been reading the financial section of the paper, which I lower casually. I’m no longer surprised by Nissa’s odd and early visits. Neither is Lena. She just throws up her hand and mutters “good morning” around her toast and continues to browse the Internet looking for baby things.
“Video up!” Nissa shouts as she comes sailing across the tile floor and plops a black, shag-cut wig on Lena’s head. “She’s Monica. I’m Rachel,” she explains to me, as if that makes her plan clear to us.
It does not.
I only know that when she comes in and yells “Video up!” it’s my cue to start filming. Beyond that, I never have a clue what Nissa is up to.
Obediently, I grab my phone, turn it toward my wife, and hit the record button. Nissa, also wearing a wig, hits play on her own phone, and the familiar guitar riff from the beginning of the Friends song fills the kitchen.