Day 10: a walk and a talk

Yesterday was the best day and the worst day since this all began ten days ago.

Tad stripped down and I gave him a sponge bath standing up in his hospital room with the million dollar view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the Headlands. Hints of Little House on the Prairie surrounded by 21st century devices. Though he did get chilled since we were missing the potbelly stove to keep him warm.

He put on his favorite Santa Cruz shorts and a big sleeveless t-shirt, threw on a jacket and a face mask to keep out any bugs and we actually walked downstairs together for the first time (with the help of an elevator). Then we went outside! Walked right through the big sliding glass doors IV's wheeling behind us like a thoroughbred dog. An astute observer would have noticed the orange sticker on the drip with big black letters: CHEMO.

Despite the mask on his face Tad was able to feel the fresh Pacific breeze on his skin and take in the plants and bushes in the hospital gardens. It tired him out but he began stretching and moving his body to get the 10 days of bed kinks out of his muscles. It was glorious to see him swiveling his hips this way and that, raising his arms to the sky, loosening up his 43 yr old body all full of toxic liquids with strange chemical names that sound like unexplored foreign territories.

It was this same day that we had the "Here's what to do if I die..." Talk.

I had left a voice mail with Matt the social worker pleading with him to help me find the words to bring up this subject. I simply didn't have it in me. I think another part of our magical thinking is that if we don't talk about the post-humous plans then we can keep death at a distance. Matt called me back a few hours later telling me he had been with Tad discussing that very thing when I called.

A few minutes after my arrival, as I sat on the bed caressing his gentle face (post-hand sanitizer of course) Tad said to me: "I want to be cremated and I want my ashes to be put next to my mom's".

The idea that this beaming, loving man will one day be a box of ashes is unbearable to me. Six years after my grandma's death I still find myself yearning to feel the touch of her loving hand on my face, her grey-blue gaze looking deeply into mine. How do we find the strength to live without these things once we've tasted their deliciousness? How will I find the strength if he does die?

The thought of it reduced us both to silent sobs.

About six months into our relationship we went for a two day wilderness hike in a remote coastal area called King's Cove. It was a tough, exhilarating hike along coastal trails then up over the ridge and back down through forests and meadows. The next day to get out we drove along the coast and then up over rolling coastal hills sprinkled with cows and farms. We didn't talk for hours we were so full of nature. It occurred to me that that was unusual for me. I had always had boyfriends as chatty as me. I commented on it and he replied, "Yes sometimes I just need silence."

And that has been a key element in our couple. Where I would like sloppy, jump-up-and-down, puppy dog greetings I often get subtle glances, sweet smiles and after a time a long slow hug with a "Welcome home my love" whispered in my ear. It was disarming at first. Now I find it soothing.

So here we are talking about the logistical details of life after Tad, or at least life after Tad's body is done. And it is mostly painful silence, long sobs and gentle touch.