Love Me Broken (43 page)

We fall asleep like that, in each other’s arms. Well, Adam seems to fall asleep. I can’t. I just lie there, holding him, feeling him hold me, and try to savor the feeling. I listen to the sounds of the hospital: the day nurse rolling her cart through the hallway, the steady shuffling of feet in the waiting area, the sound of seagulls outside and the occasional car horn.

It’s peaceful, quiet and miserable.

I don’t want this moment to end. I don’t want to ever stop listening to Adam’s heartbeat. I don’t want to be in a world without him. It’s too painful, too—

There’s a knock on the door.

Adam’s eyes open so quickly that I’m sure he wasn’t really sleeping either. His eyebrows descend in annoyance, but he doesn’t say anything. Then there’s another knock, louder, more insistent.

“What?” Adam calls out.

The door opens and his mother enters.

“Can’t you give us a minute?” Adam snaps.

She shakes her head. A female doctor appears behind her in the doorway. “Why didn’t you pick up your phone?” his mom asks. “I’ve been trying to call.”

“What’s going on?” I ask.

She glances over at me and then back at Adam. She smiles.

“We might have a hope after all.”

Adam and I both sit up, and Rachel motions for the doctor. She’s an older woman who nonetheless takes good care of herself. She has a trim figure and neat, professional makeup. Her dark hair is tied back, and she introduces herself as Dr. Karen Yates.

“I’ve been reviewing Adam’s case file,” she says, “and based on his history, he would be a prime candidate for a pneumonectomy.”

Adam blinks. “A what?”

“A full removal of your left lung,” Dr. Yakes explains.

We’re silent.

“Is that possible?” I ask.

“Yes. It is a last resort when less radical surgeries have been ineffective.”

“What’s the cost?” Adam asks.

His mother takes his hand. “Nothing to us. It’s covered, and we’re well past our deductible.” The doctor nods.

Hope blooms in my chest. But I still can’t believe it. “What are the risks? What’s the survival rate?”

Dr. Yates turns to me. “The surgery has an excellent survival rate, over ninety-eight percent. I have performed three myself, all successful.”

“And are those patients fine now?” Adam asks.

The doctor looks away, and my stomach sinks. Then she looks back at Adam. “The surgery itself is safe, but it is not a cure for cancer. It is still possible that new growths have metastasized elsewhere, and we’re simply not aware of them at the moment. If this is the case, a pneumonectomy will only buy a short amount of time, if that.”

“If the cancer doesn’t come back,” I ask, “what will Adam’s life be like then? Can you really live with one lung?”

“Oh, absolutely. But it will be an adjustment.” She turns to Adam. “You may not have your previous levels of stamina. A lot of patients report shortness of breath, occasional dizziness. You might have to rest more often.”

Adam considers this. Then he turns to me. “Would you be okay with that?” he asks. “You’d be stuck with half a man. Are you sure you’d still love me broken?”

I start to cry, and turn to hug him.

Will I still love him? Does he even have to ask?

We barely absorb the news before I am being prepared for surgery. There’s no time for delay. I might be dead by tomorrow, after all.

A nurse goes over the familiar surgery spiel: questions about how much I’ve been eating and drinking (almost nothing, thankfully), a review of my history, an overview of the surgery itself. Only she’s not using the word surgery. She’s using the word pneumonectomy.

Then I’m told some not-so-familiar items. A separate, older nurse comes in and makes me sign a waiver saying that I understand the risks of this surgery. “A pneumonectomy is not a simple operation,” she explains. “In your condition, we wouldn’t ordinarily even advise a surgery this intensive. But we don’t really have any other options.”

She looks me square in the eye.

“Adam. It is only fair for us to tell you that this is by no means a sure thing. It is merely a chance, a gamble that we’re getting all the cancer cells. And in your weakened condition, there is a real chance your body will give out under the stress. You may never wake up again.”

I have to turn away from her gaze. I look down at my hands.

Erica puts her hand into my palm.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

* * *

It’s all very fast. I am prepped and ready to go by the evening. We don’t have much time for anything, we are so busy keeping up with standard procedure.

But before I am wheeled into the operating room, they give me one last moment to say good-bye to Erica and my mom.

My mom goes first. She throws her arms around me and grips me so tight that I’m worried she’ll squeeze me to death before I have a chance to go in. She kisses my face, and then looks me in the eye to tell me I’m the best son she could have ever hoped for, and that she loves me more than anything. “I’ll see you after,” she says, and I nod, even though it still feels like we’re kidding ourselves.

Then it is Erica’s turn. She is quiet, looking at me, knowing more than my mother that this might be our last good-bye. I take her hand.

“No matter what happens,” I tell her, “I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Thank you for keeping me alive.”

She bends down and hugs me, and I can feel her body shake with uncontrolled sobs. “I love you,” she says, and repeats it again. “I love you.”

I kiss her cheek. “I love you too.”

I can’t bring myself to say good-bye. That’s too sad somehow. So we simply lock eyes as the nurse turns my wheelchair away, and I’m pushed through the double doors of the operating room.

And then it’s just me. I may never see them again.

Two men wearing surgeon’s masks help me onto the operating table. I’ve had two major surgeries before, but the tension in the room feels much higher this time. This is a much more complicated surgery, I realize. There’s more equipment in the room, more people. Everyone knows the risks.

I see Dr. Yates. She smiles at me. “We are going to do our best,” she tells me, and somehow that makes me feel like I’m going to die for sure. Then the anesthesiologist pokes my arm with a needle, and the IV sedation begins. I know from my past surgeries that I’ve only got about sixty seconds left before I’m out. My heart beats, and I hear it on the monitor.

What if I never wake up again? What if these are my last moments? It feels surreal, like it can’t be happening. Even with all these months expecting to die, I feel unprepared. It’s a very strange feeling, knowing you might be experiencing your last few seconds of life on earth. It’s a mixture of panic, of acute observation, of surprising clarity.

Then I start to feel the drug take effect. My limbs feel heavy. But my mind is still sharp, and I suddenly don’t want to go under. I don’t want it to end. This can’t be the last thing I ever think. That’s too unfair. I was healthy; I didn’t smoke; I exercised. I’ve lived so little. Everyone else gets decades more.

And what about Erica? I miss her so fucking much. I wish she were here.

I concentrate on this idea. My eyes are closed, and I know I only have moments. I picture her. I picture us together by the water, her body wrapped in mine. I remember our first kiss. Her laugh. Her smile.

And I am not scared anymore. I am not bitter at my poor luck. If these memories are all that life allows, maybe that’s okay. Because they’re memories of her. And I’m grateful for that.

I am—

 
 
 
 

We return to Astoria for the funeral.

It’s summer, and I have the window down as we drive. Pete is in his carrier in the back seat, belted in and secure. As we turn onto Commercial Street, it doesn’t feel like I’ve been away for nearly a year. It feels like I’m coming home after a really long day.

I let out a long sigh.

“Hey, where’d you go?”

I blink, woken from my thoughts. Adam is in the passenger seat. The pneumonectomy was a success. Adam had one more round of radiation, just to be safe, and his latest reports came back clean. His cancer is officially in remission, with no new cells.

He’s healthier now, and starting to look more like he did when I first met him. He’s put on some weight and grown out his hair. He’s older around the eyes though. Facing death changes you. It’s changed us.

He’s waiting for me to respond.

“Oh, sorry,” I say. “It’s just kind of weird going back.”

“Yeah,” he says. “It sucks that it’s not under better circumstances, but at least we’ll get to see everyone again.”

“These are better circumstances than I could have hoped for.”

I think of Eliza Burnside. She died last week, peacefully in her sleep. We’re back in town for her service. If things had gone differently, I might be attending Adam’s funeral instead.

A lump forms in my throat, and I have to take Adam’s hand and hold it for a moment, just to reassure myself that he’s there. Then I feel nervous without both hands on the wheel, and go back to driving. We reach a stoplight and wait for it to turn green. I look at the summer tourists, a mother tugging her daughter’s hand as they cross in front of us. I look at the bright blue sky, the high fluffy clouds. It looks so warm and sunny that it feels almost inappropriate for why we’re here.

“Did you know her?” Adam asks.

“No,” I say. “Not really. I mean, I had seen her around town on her motorcycle. She was kind of hard to miss.”

Adam chuckles. “Yeah. I only met her twice.” He grins. “I think she was hitting on me.”

I laugh. “She was eighty-seven!”

“Hey. The heart wants what it wants.”

The light turns green, and we continue along the familiar road, past Nicole’s coffee shop. She will be at the service already, but I look through the window on instinct. I’m amazed that it all looks the same. Then I realize it’s only been about ten months since I left. It feels like a decade.

 “She was in the hospital at the same time as you,” I say, suddenly remembering. I had forgotten about that, with everything else that had been going on. “She was there for laryngitis, and Levi came to visit her.”