It Takes a Worried Man (15 page)

After my mom takes off, she leaves behind one of those shower scrubby things, three earrings and the new U2 album,(which ironically enough is called
All That You Can’t Leave Behind
) which she bought for herself but I quickly appropriate since she left it here. I have it in the CD player on my way to the hospital the day we get out for vacation. It’s a really great record, and it’s nice to see that they believe they can do what they’re good at again and that they don’t have to be some hyper-ironic techno band, or whatever the hell they were trying to be for the last five years. Everybody knows they don’t have a sense of humor, and dammit, we like it that way.

So I am listening to it, and it is great but not exactly the cheeriest thing you’ve ever heard because it’s about real adult topics like dying and stuff, which admittedly might not have been the best choice for me, but I’m listening to it anyway. I stop for lunch at this burrito place and read a little bit of a book my mom left behind, which is
Mystic River
by Dennis Lehane, which is a crime novel set in Boston, but it is also horribly depressing because its about these people with horribly depressing dead-end lives and then somebody gets killed, and their shitty lives get even worse than they were before.

All of this is to say that I am not in the greatest mood on this particular day, and when I get to the hospital, I give Kirsten a hug, and I just start to cry. This is not because I am sad about the treatment or anything–she has been in the trough, but she is on the way up now, her counts are coming up and so are her spirits, and she is much less nauseous, so they don’t have to give her Ativan and Benadryl anymore, so she seems much more like herself. It’s just the physical sensation of holding her feels like an electric shock. I just immediately feel all over my body how much I miss her, how much it hurts all the time to not be able to touch her, and I get through most days without even realizing it, but then today, all the sudden, it hurts so much I could cry. So I do.

My first year of teaching, I had a rather difficult class, and one kid in this class was named Sun (he had a brother named Moon), and as Christmas break approached, Sun used to enter class every day–well, the days when he wasn’t high–singing a little ditty that went like this: “MER-ry MOTHERf(glottal stop)n CHRISTmas,” and I would protest feebly, and he would argue that he didn’t actually swear, and while this shows what an iron-fisted disciplinarian I am in the classroom, it has also been haunting me as Christmas approaches this year. I just hear this kid’s voice and his singsong obscenity in my head whenever Christmas comes up.

I am convinced it’s going to be easy. Though I have been listening to the music, I have not been getting myself psyched up for the holiday or anything–what I’m most looking forward to is a little bit of extra sleep. As the vacation begins, Kirsten’s folks take Rowen for a day, and I end up going out with my friend Petey to see
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
, which is, well, it’s getting rave reviews, most of whom seem to be coming from non kung-fu afans who think it’s really cool that they fight on wires in this movie, and it is really cool, but at the same time it’s nothing I haven’t seen in twenty other movies, and plus, the director Ang Lee has brought a little too much
Sense and Sensibility
to this, if you ask me. There are many scenes with people sitting around talking in beautiful settings, and that’s fine, but actually I want to watch these people kicking each other’s asses a little more and talking about the nature of fate a little less. I have been contemplating the nature of fate plenty lately–what I haven’t done is kicked the shit out of any old enemies, and that’s what I came to the movies to see. The movie is half an hour too long, and people who don’t like action movies will like it because it’s got enough boring parts interspersed with the excellent fights to make it seem like Quality Filmmaking. I say less talk, more rock, but this movie will probably have tons of awards by the time you read this, so what the hell do I know, except a boring movie when I see one.

Anyway, the next day is Christmas Eve, and I go and hang out in Kirsten’s room for about two and a half hours, which is probably the longest visit we’ve had yet, and we have a very nice time just sitting there and watching football, even though Kirsten is a little depressed because her counts are not where she would like them to be, especially if she’s going to be on track to go home in three days. When her granulocytes, (whatever the hell those are) get to 500 (what is the unit of measure here? I have no idea. Is that 500 total? 500 per milliliter, per liter, per square inch?), she can have the door to her room open. She sort of thought she’d be there by now, but she’s only at 350.

Which is just as well, as it turns out, because this time I’m really sure, somebody is dying right across the hall. The hall is chock full of grieving relatives as I am trying to microwave something for Kirsten to eat, and I have to shove past about ten crying people three different times, and when I see a doctor in sweats come in and start hugging people, I know for sure. And I look at all these red-eyed people and feel relatively lucky by comparison. I am actually having a pretty nice afternoon, running around microwaving stuff, sipping Diet Coke through a straw tucked under my mask while watching the Patriots at least give Miami a game, which is more than they’ve been able to do most of the season, and I look at these people and feel guilty for my cheerful bustling.

And then, right before I am leaving, I remember that it’s Christmas Eve, and these people will now always remember standing in this hospital hallway crying while some annoying short bald guy says excuse me every two minutes while someone they love dies. This is their brand new freshly-minted Christmas memory. Merry motherfuckin Christmas.

I head down to Kirsten’s folks’ house, where Rowen is glad to see me, and after she goes to bed I stay up reading the chess book my friend Eric sent me for Christmas and sadly realizing that I really will never be any good at chess, but enjoying reading about it nonetheless. I have been playing chess for a little over a year now, and while I still suck terribly, I find I can usually beat my students, who, in typical teenage fashion, are way too aggressive and bring the queen out on like the second move, while the tired old man bides his time and usually wins. Except when playing other tired old men with even a little bit of skill, in which case I get shellacked, usually in embarrassing fashion.

Christmas morning with Kirsten’s folks arrives, and it is fine, and the best part is the stockings, because they have stuff like pens and dried mushrooms and small kitchen implements in them, and I always enjoy and get use out of the stocking stuff. Rowen gets a ton of gifts but is a distant second to Kirsten’s brother’s wife, who I guess is my sister-in-law, but I sometimes wish I spoke Chinese or some other language that reflected the importance of kinship and would therefore have a different word for Kirsten’s sister and Kirsten’s brother’s wife, but anyway, Keri gets a boatload of stuff from her parents, who are not here but have mailed a ton of stuff from Virginia. And this is like an ad for the voluntary simplicity movement, because she literally has so many gifts piled on the table in front of her that none of us can see her, and ok, she’s a small woman, but still. Each present does not seem to bring her increased joy, but rather increased annoyance. She gets cranky after about the third one.

I have been cranky since before we started opening presents, because this whole thing just feels wrong. I had convinced myself that I didn’t care, that this Christmas was just going to pass, was just going to be another day, you know, no big deal, but as I sit here on Christmas morning I feel terrible. Where tis my wife? Why am I here with her family without her? I have terrible flash-forwards to future joyless Christmases without Kirsten, and that’s bad, but this one is bad enough, and all those stupid pop songs I complained about were right–I don’t give a shit about presents or anything else–all I want is my wife back, and everything else can go to hell.

I call Kirsten, and she is in tears, and I’m crying too, and merry motherfuckin Christmas, ho-ho-ho this holiday bites. Fortunately there is some kind of conspiracy among the nurses on Kirsten’s floor to break the rules and allow Rowen to visit.  There is a big sign on the door that says no children under six are allowed, and they had initially told us that they only break that rule when a parent is dying on the floor, but I guess the Christmas spirit has taken over, so Rowen and I head up to the hospital and, under the supervision of Kirsten’s primary nurse, who of course I have a crush on,(not in a cheesy, naughty-nurse
Playboy
magazine type of way, but, you know, she is kind of attractive and she takes good care of all of us and laughs at Kirsten’s jokes, so what’s not to like?) we wash up and get Rowen some spiffy Smurfette gloves, and in to the bubble we go. Kirsten is sitting up in bed, pale, bald and smiling. “Hi sweetie!” she says when Rowen comes in. She is really too sick to get out of bed and greet us, and so I expect Rowen to shout “Mommy!” and go running into her arms, but I guess this is weird for her, so she sort of turns into my leg and clings to me.

Eventually Rowen agrees to sit up on Kirsten’s bed if she can be on my lap, so the two of us sit there and Kirsten closes her eyes, hugs us both and says, “Mmmmm, it’s so good to see you.” I am convinced I am going to start bawling, reunion scenes always get me more than anything, every Christmas I start sobbing when Jimmy Stewart runs into the house, tears in his eyes, yelling, “Zuzu! Kids!”, but strangely enough I am able to hold it in during the saddest, happiest reunion I will probably ever see in real life.

After five minutes we all relax a little, and despite the masks and the gloves and the adjustable bed and Kirsten’s shiny bald head, we all feel more normal than we have in weeks.  The three of us are finally together, and this holiday finally feels like it makes some sense. And I get the feeling that if the nurses ran things rather than the doctors, the health care system would be a whole lot less fucked up.

Merry Christmas.

When Nan was here, she told us that she used to always get her sons up by opening their shades and saying “Hooray for a new day!”  I think I mocked her mercilessly for being a corn dog at the time, but today I sort of feel like shouting hooray for a new day myself.

Rowen and I go out to the movies, which is a great thing to do on this freezing cold day because there is a tunnel from the subway station into the mall where the movie theater is, so once we get on the train at our stop, we don’t have to be outside again until we come home. We go see
The Emperor’s New Groove
, which I like a surprising amount, especially because it lacks most of the stuff that makes Disney movies insufferable, like villains that are too scary and scenes that are too disturbing, (when I saw
Tarzan
, kids were screaming as the hunter shot at Tarzan’s family) terrible music, (I know, I know, “Under the Sea,” but I refer you again to
Tarzan
, and its pseudo-jungle Phil Collins songs and to most of the songs in most of the movies), formulaic, stupid talking animal sidekicks (well, the main character in this one gets turned into a llama, but it wasn’t the usual wisecracking crab, dragon, meerkat, or whatever) and gratuitous violence (I always wondered how electroshock to the testicles gets an R rating for
The Lords of Discipline
, but merits a G for
101 Dalmatians
.) All of which is a rather negative way of saying that I really like this movie and we have a great time and eat way too much popcorn because I am seduced by the “for 25 cents more I can give you the garbage bag instead of the dime bag” routine at the concession stand. I look in the paper the next day and see that this movie has made about 10 bucks, so I guess my taste in Disney movies just doesn’t match up with most of America’s, and which also means that we can probably look forward to more wisecracking ferrets and bad lite-rock soundtracks in future movies.

I go to the hospital, peek my head in the open door and see the room is empty, and I turn my head and there is Kirsten, pole-free, she has forsaken Baxter and come back to me, and she is just walking down the hallway.  “I gotta be seen walking so they’ll let me out of here tomorrow,” she says.  “I also have to keep drinking.” She polishes off a Diet Coke and writes it down in her drinking log. She needs to get to two liters today in order to get out tomorrow. I am stunned. Yesterday was one of the worst days yet, we were both crying, she could barely get out of bed, I felt like Ebenezer freaking Scrooge about Christmas, and now she is up smiling and walking around.

I am sure that the docs here at Major Research Hospital would pooh-pooh this idea as unscientific, but I sure as hell think having Rowen in here yesterday had a lot to do with this. Maybe I’m a corn dog too, but this is the most dramatic change I have seen in Kirsten yet–everything so far has been incremental, both on the down side and on the upside, and now all of the sudden there is this quantum leap, and it just doesn’t seem coincidental to me that it came after Kirsten finally got to see her daughter after almost three weeks.  Like I said, I am sure the docs would mock me–well, no, what they actually would do is try desperately to put this “I’m taking you seriously” face on, but be unable to disguise the, “Yeah, whatever, you fucking freak” face trying to break through and say something like, “Yes, well, if it helps you to think that, that’s great,” or something like that.

I come out of the hospital just elated, and after I pick up some stuff at the grocery store and send Kirsten’s parents on their way, Rowen and I have a great afternoon and evening. We hang out playing her new go fish game, and she cheats shamelessly, and we put on Rowen’s favorite CD (REM’s
Monster
. It is the only thing she ever wants to hear, and I am getting a little tired of it, but it’s a tribute to “What’s the Frequency Kenneth” that I can still stand to hear it after about a month in heavy Rowen rotation, and I count my blessings that it’s not, you know
Barney sings Calypso
or something horrible like that) and dance around the living room.

Later some guys from church come over to do some cleaning, and I must digress here and say that these are the only men who have volunteered for this duty, and they happen to be a gay couple, and I don’t know what to make of that. With the notable exception of the minister and Emerson the prayer warrior, none of the straight men in the congregation have helped out visibly with any of this stuff, though to be fair a lot of them have probably been home watching kids and stuff while the women were here, but I know if the roles were reversed I might give somebody a ride or cook them a dinner, but I damn sure wouldn’t go clean their bathroom, so there you go.

Anyway, so Robert and Tim are here cleaning, and they are both really kind people, and I just like having them in the house because they give off good vibes, and Rowen is helping me cook some spring rolls while I sipsome kick-ass stout.  I am pleasantly, mildly buzzed, and I have one of these moments of perfect happiness. I am full of gratitude for the nice people cleaning our house and for Kirsten’s turnaround, I am full of love for Rowen and proud and happy that she seems interested in sharing my hobby (as she inexpertly rolls a spring roll, she says, “I wanna help you cook
every
night,” and my heart just sings), and I am perfectly happy. For several minutes, I am just completely, perfectly happy, and I realize that I am incredibly lucky, sick spouse or no, because I think these moments are just so rare for so many people, and here I am having one right now, and it feels wonderful. Hooray for a new day.