the secret to life

I woke up very early Friday morning --two days ago-- thinking it would be the most painful day of my life.

Not only did I need to pack all of Tad's and my belongings, but I also needed to take my sweet, pain-riddled husband home to die. As I walked across the flawless Stanford lawns toward the hospital I found myself wondering where I would possibly find the energy to get myself through this tragic day.

But -- as my brain loves to forget -- life is rarely the way I think it will be.

The most difficult part of the day ended up being the waiting-game. Stanford took forever to do what they kept promising: finalize all of the discharge tasks. Planned for 2PM it actually happened at 7PM, a mere blink of an eye in Rigid-Institutional-Time but an eternity for someone with a death sentence eager to be home.

I discovered that the actual tasks of folding clothes, working with discharge staff, carrying food trays, fetching coffee were all quite soothing to me, pleasant even. However at one point I couldn't hold it anymore and my tears began to flow:

"I can't believe I am taking you home to die. This is too much for me. How did this happen?" I sat on the bed in a heap.

Tad looked at me with his gorgeous smile -- and a face of misunderstanding -- shaking his head and saying: "But that's not how I see it at all. I'm going home to live. Let's go live."

This waiting was nothing new. When the doctors first came by a few days earlier to deliver the bad news of the biopsy I was absent. Since the results were "complicated" they offered to come back at 1PM so I could be present. I was expecting the usual cancer-chemo, six-of-one, half-a-dozen of the other outcome but also knew it might not be good news. When I arrived at 1PM I notified the team and was told someone would be in shortly. That didn't happen. Each time I hit the call button the receptionist assured me that the oncologist was informed and would be there soon.

At 5:30 I went out to where I knew the doctors congregate and grabbed the first (no doubt unsuspecting) oncology team member, a tall, lanky Jewish-looking kid in his early 20's with expensive shoes beneath his white coat. I looked him in the furtive eyes and said: "I've been waiting four hours for the results of a life or death biopsy. I think it is highly unethical for you and your team to keep us waiting so long. Please do something about it now."

I must admit I was really grateful to see the Big Boss oncologist arrive five minutes later and equally grateful to hear his honesty -- something I had been seeking from big-shot doctors for months. I could see he and his lovely fellow were squirming as they told us that the leukemia was already active but the immune system just wasn't. They offered to treat again but told us it would probably be useless. The boss made some banal comments about living fully and enjoying the time left - only vaguely hiding his discomfort. When I told him I could see it wasn't easy for him he acquiesced and replied that he had this conversation "four or five times each week."

I asked him to describe to us what death from leukemia would look like. (It is in moments like these that I realize I am an optimist;  I never really see disasters coming. Real frank black and white reality words -delivered with love- are what help me the most.) Much like my many friends who died of AIDS in the 80's and 90's he explained Tad may simply die of an infection that his leukemia-ridden body and the many anti-biotics can no longer overcome. Or because of the way the cancer weakens the circulatory system he may just have a brain hemorrhage and fall asleep - never to awaken. Unlike tumorous cancers however, the oncologist assured me, leukemia doesn't put pressure on your body in extremely painful ways.

He gave no indication of a time table.

Among our back-home tasks yesterday -including laying out pills, fixing the vacuum cleaner and unpacking-- was the simple gesture of filling the fridge with good stuff. I waited til dinner time when I know Trader Joe's is less busy and asked Tad what his wish-list was. He announced he was coming with me.

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. He had already jumped in his pick-up and gone to the hardware store for electrical tape to repair something. I began to get anxious when I saw that he wasn't coming back quickly enough. Images of the guys at the lumber company calling an ambulance to resuscitate him flashed through my mind. Then suddenly he came around the corner, the back of his red pick-up truck full of new plants and flowers he'd just bought at the adjacent garden center. Where he was getting the energy and feeling pain-free enough to do all this was a mystery to me. Just the day before he had been in a bed at Stanford Hospital buzzing again and again to get more pain relief.

At Trader Joe's we began filling up the cart with foods we rarely buy. It wasn't something we agreed on, everything just seemed appealing to us. Between UC being back in session and the surf season still active there were lots of young, half-dressed, cute things wandering around the store which, the usually mute Tad pointed out to me with relish. After I went through the frozen food section picking out our usual fare he insisted on going back to check. I went to the end of the aisle and watched him slowly walk along the giant freezer sinkholes carefully perusing each product with a smile. He came back with some kind of lemon/ginger-snap ice cream and fish sticks - things I would have never imagined buying for him.

Ironically Trader Joe's has played a key role in our couple. Just two blocks away from Tad's house - it's the little Ali-Baba cave I run to on a regular basis to make yummy meals for him - a devoutly non-culinary type. A big part of our love story has been me preparing meals and watching his pleasure as he eats them up. Compared to my life in France where this whole process took hours, these meals are usually short-lived and to the point - remnants of our Protestant heritage no doubt.

During the many months of hospitalization I began to realize how important these cooking and serving rituals had become for me. When he was gone I struggled to find pleasure in making meals. When he was here I found myself unearthing old techniques I had learned in cookery school back in Paris in my early 20's.

Suddenly while perusing the carbonated fruit-drink section my mind left the pleasure of the present moment and inched ahead to the future -  the valley of the shadow of death. I burst into tears just as Tad came around the corner with yogurts and other goodies.

"Oh honey what's wrong?" he asked.

"I'm just thinking that sometime soon I'll be in this store shopping and you won't be here anymore."

He nodded silently, hugged me and wiped away my tears with deep love while two teenage girls walked by saying "Awwww..." with real empathy and a total absence of any teenage snarkiness.

Not to sound too dramatic - this moment was a mini-enlightenment.

There I was steeping in this blissful food-shopping adventure with the Man-I-Love who was finally free of hospital rules, gowns, gloves and vageuly sadistic RN's withholding pain medication. It was just a beautiful moment to be alive enjoying the purchases of each taste. Then suddenly I let my brain - clearly my best friend and my worst enemy - imagine something not real at that moment, something in the future. And I went from being completely content to being full of sorrow and fear. Then just as suddenly Tad flashed me his loving smile and I went back to joy. With his whole body he said, "I see you". Finally total strangers witnessed and acknowledged our suffering.

Those three minutes encapsulate some of the most powerful lessons of my life: the pain I cause myself by not living in the moment, the joy I  feel even in the midst of huge tragedy, the deep soothing that comes from being acknowledged in my raw honesty by my beloveds and the healing power of being witnessed in our humanity by strangers - who suddenly become human.

After I calmed down Tad and I separated then moved to the check-out counter where the young cashier smiled and said, "You guys having a good day?"

We looked at each other and in unison replied "Not bad, thank you."