One of Us Will Die Inside These Arms

The other day, my radiation nurse asked how Paul was doing with treatment.

“Oh, he’s ok. I mean. Well. Actually. No.” I paused, unsure how to finish that sentence. I mean—how do you casually tell people your husband is dying? (I probably did it very wrong.)

I stumbled through the key points: 

• Paul stopped the chemo pill he was on. 
• He probably won't pursue any more treatment. 
• He’s focusing on enjoying what time he has left. 
  
  

See? It’s like dropping a bomb on people. 

It’s also been a major reason for the gaps between my evasive blog posts lately. It hurts too much to think those thoughts. It hurts worse to give them shape.

We had a great Christmas. Absolutely, we did. It was very special.

But.

Everything has taken on this weird blend of light and dark, happy and sad, gratitude and grief.

About a month ago, Paul went into the clinic for routine bloodwork. It was the usual state of affairs: low hemoglobin, requiring a cocktail of A- blood. Blood transfusions are an all-day event, so we passed the time by discussing fun topics such as: which photograph we should use in his obituary, and a Buy-One-Get-One headstone promo Paul considered “a deal we should jump on!”

When his oncologist stopped by, Paul broached the subject of stopping treatment. We wanted to get her honest input on the subject. Realistically, Paul asked, aren’t I coming to the end of the line in terms of treatment available to me?

Her tone was gentle, yet matter-of-fact: “Yes, we’re getting close to that point. Our options are winding down.”

In all of his years as a patient, a concrete timeline has never been assigned to Paul’s survival. Until very recently, the majority of our medical consultations have danced around the fact that his cancer would result in, uh, death. The language is usually more geared towards survival: treatments, clinical trials, getting better, the future.

Things are shifting, though. It’s impossible not to notice.

When I met him, Paul was a strapping, wood-chopping, winter-camping kind of dude with thick sideburns and an unhurried, mellow temperament. I found him extraordinarily charming in his Grateful Dead t-shirts and ‘93 stick-shift Volvo. He was easy to befriend. He was easy to fall in love with. 

Summer in Wisconsin, 2007

The sideburns and the Volvo have long since bit the dust, and we don’t do much camping these days. Certainly not in the hollowed-out cavern of a snow mound. (Paul maintains this is an enjoyable activity. We agree to disagree on the matter.)

He’s still charming, and he still has a laugh that makes my insides gooey. But he now checks in at 136 pounds and he sometimes needs help getting into a standing position.

Before the holidays, Paul’s palliative care doctor asked, ever so gently, if we had worked out his end-of-life wishes. She gave us pamphlets with photographs of silvery-haired couples and instructions on how to initiate this conversation. Not a cheery read. But I was grateful for her candid approach. 

Last month, we got in touch with an end-of-life wish-granting organization. I gave the forms to Paul’s oncologist, who happily completed them. Afterward, I scanned what she had written in the space following “Patient’s Life Expectancy”—6-12 months.

6-12 months.

Could be more, could be less. But I don’t think those numbers are far off the mark.

I’ve been hesitant with posting, too, because I don’t want to be this woe-is-me harbinger of gloom. So I’m sad, so what. Everyone is sad.

And people have been so good to us. So generous, so kind and helpful. Who needs to hear how I can’t drive anywhere without some stupid Ed Sheeran song on the stupid radio making me bawl my stupid eyes out? (It’s terrific trying to compose myself at red lights. Nothing to see here, folks. Just a slightly hysterical woman who maybe shouldn’t be driving.)

A few weeks ago, Ingrid approached me with a serious look on her face.

“Mom? Is my Dad ok?”

Me: “What makes you ask that?”

Ingrid: “My Dad is so...so…so…(she stammered in search of the appropriate adjective)...so SAD.”

He is sad, naturally. But he’s still Paul and he still jokes in his singularly “Paul” way. His 33rd birthday fell on Thanksgiving this year. While planning our menu and arguing the superior features of our preferred holiday desserts, Paul played the dying card—he played it hard.

“But Liz, you do know this is going to be my LAST Thanksgiving, right? My LAST birthday.”

Me: “...”

Paul: “Cherry pie it is then.”

I’m sorry for this party pooper of a post. But then, I write about cancer. Not much happy stuff to report on the topic, I’m afraid.

Please know we are so grateful for all of the encouragement and meals and Wegmans gift cards and prayers we’re still receiving. I wish I could give every single one of you a giant bear hug to say “Thank you, we love you, you’re making this so much easier for us.” Except it would be less of a giant bear hug and more of a delicate fist bump because I’m not a hugger and, well, you understand.

xoxo