American River Review 2019 - Flipbook - Page 77
We saw it all so clearly then, and yet we were as blind
as eyeless creatures resting on the ocean floor. We were
willing to believe anything from anyone, as long as they
were not stand-ins for our parents. So a louse-bitten yak
herder’s advice on life, the insights of the schizophrenic,
the health practices of tribes whose life expectancy was
just over thirty years were all preferable to the ways
of Eisenhower’s tidy little America. And many of us
survived, especially those of us who still had enough
sense to be afraid of the half-dead junkies and speed
freaks who drifted in and out of our ragged clans. It’s all a
blur, now. It was pretty much a blur then.
I woke the morning after diagnosis with my hand on
my breast and a dull headache, severely disappointed
that my situation had not changed in the night. I could
hear Ron clanking around in the kitchen and smelled
something lovely in the air. I could hear Cindy’s voice,
and I padded out to find my husband making sesame
pancakes while Cindy occupied herself with a cup of
coffee. Cindy had her eyes fixed on me, like she was
waiting for some kind of signal and I was the mothership.
Ron’s hands shook as he slid pancakes onto my plate, not
meeting my eyes at all. I wondered if I looked as freaked
out as the two of them. Ron sat down across from me and
smoothed his pant legs over his thighs again and again.
He seemed to be holding his breath. It was all so stiff and
awkward, and I couldn’t think what to say either, which
you will know by now is unusual for me.
Ron raised his head and I saw that his eyes were red
and wet with tears.
another rescue dog. If I died, Cindy would make all the
arrangements for the memorial and Ron would play his
guitar. Nancy would not be allowed to lead a prayer. Or
sing. Or bring yogurt.
“And if you want to sleep together, that’s okay,” I told
them, “that’s if I die. Otherwise, not.” They stared at each
other with identical expressions of shock and alarm. “No
pressure,” I said, and we had the pleasure of laughing
together.
But still, the big-picture questions keep arising when I
least expect them, when I’m doing something like putting
toilet paper on the holder or feeding the cat. What’s it all
about? Who am I? Leftover, unanswered questions from
adolescence, no doubt, things I might have worked out
if I hadn’t been so stoned. It seems like my life should
add up to something cosmic or meaningful or spiritual,
but maybe there isn’t a big picture. Maybe this quest for
pattern, for meaning, is just a puzzle to keep us occupied
until we die, a random wrinkle in the human brain next to
the story-teller that narrates our lives. Maybe a man with
a parrot on his shoulder walks into a bar, maybe not. The
bits and pieces swirl in my head, drift away and back,
fade in and out.
I can imagine a kind of clarity emerging from this
whole experience. They say that happens, the survivors
do. I’m almost ready to embrace this possibility and look
forward to getting the message. I don’t think it will be a
lesson. I don’t think it will be a joke either. I think it will
be about love.
“Tell me what to do,” he forced out. “I can’t lose you.”
He reached across the table and petted my right breast in
the kindest way. Then he dropped his head to the table
and began to sob. “I’m…” he kept saying, “I’m…,” but
he couldn’t choke out the rest of the sentence. I knocked
over my chair to get around the table and press my hands
onto his heaving shoulders, then wrap my arms around
his neck. Cindy was tactfully edging out the door, but I
caught her sleeve and held her back.
“I need you, too,” I said. “You’re on the team.”
She wrapped her arms around Ron and me, and she
began to cry as well. That made three of us. When we
finally pulled ourselves together, we could talk it over
and it began to seem like an important project instead
of a cruel practical joke. Plans were hatched and revised
or discarded. Lists were made and amended, action
items assigned, contingencies covered, all the way from
triumph to utter defeat. If somehow the tumor turned out
to be benign, we would finish the back patio and throw
a big party with guacamole and dancing. If my hair
fell out, Ron would shave his head in solidarity. Cindy
wouldn’t, having long blonde hair none of us wanted to
lose. If I managed to get into remission, we would adopt
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