Can't Always Get What You Want (26 page)

May 8, 2009

I hate this hospital room.

I hate the paint color.

I hate the outdated art.

I hate the clock on the wall, ticking away my time with Aaron. It echoes in the deathly-quiet room, assaulting my ears, my nerves, my hope.

I’d like to smash it.

I didn’t realize I could cry this much.

Aaron, a ghost of his former self, his head made nearly invisible by a fluffy pillow. He’s lost so much weight.

I look at Aaron, deep in sleep, despite his sitting completely upright. I’m tempted to use the bed controls and adjust his position, but worry that it might wake him. My mind wanders back to the day we had our first meeting with the oncologist, Dr. Luscri.

Since then, it’s been a dizzying blur of tests, blood work, biopsies, symptom management, and, finally, the horrid day when we learned two new words:

Glioblastoma multiforme.

Or, GBM, as Dr. Luscri calls it. It’s the most common, most aggressive malignant primary brain tumor that people can get.

Four months of words like “inoperable,” and “end-of-life care.” Of the tumor being “unresponsive” to treatment.

I feel like throwing a full-blown tantrum, one that would put any toddler to shame. How could something like this happen to someone as wonderful as Aaron? We were going to spend our lives together.

Four months of seizures and mood swings. Aaron was always sweet and gentle, and now he’s sometimes confused and aggressive.

One day, he tries to break the window in his room.

“I can see my buddy out there!” he insists. “Hey, Johnny!” he yells.

“Sweetheart,” I soothe, “it’s eleven o’clock at night. No one is outside. See? It’s dark outside.”

He glares at me, and starts pounding the glass with his fists again.

“John! Johnny!” he screams.

I’ve never seen him so angry, so determined. I’ve never felt so frightened. I lay a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“Aaron…”

He shakes away my hand, and takes a menacing step toward me.

“You don’t believe me?” he sneers. “He’s out there. I can see him! Are you calling me a
liar
?” He turns away from me, a disgusted look on his face.

How can this be Aaron?
The man I’m in love with?

It isn’t. It’s the cancer talking.

He starts pounding the glass again and I press the call bell.

A pleasant voice comes in over the speaker.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes! Aaron is going mental; he’s trying to smash the window in his room.”

Within seconds, a team of nurses and a couple of security guards enter the room. I can barely see what’s going on through the tears in my eyes. All I know is that there is yelling (Aaron), soothing voices (the nurses), and an overall sense of chaos in the air.

And then, all is calm. They must have sedated him.

I watch from a corner of the room as they settle Aaron back into bed, check his vitals, and make several notes on their papers.

They all seem so unruffled. They can make him feel better. When his headaches become too much to bear, they can make the pain go away. When he’s confused and agitated, they can soothe him.

While I feel out of control and helpless, they always just seem so cool and collected, always knowledgeable, always able to “do” something.

I envy them.

These recent events weigh heavily on my mind as I rest my chin on Aaron’s bed.

A nurse bustles in, carrying an assortment of pills and IV bags.

“How’s he doing?” she asks.

I shrug. “He’s sleeping.”

She nods, and starts hanging the IV meds. Once that’s done, she brings over a paper medicine cup. It holds two pentagon-shaped pills.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Decadron,” she replies.

“What does it do?”

“It’s a corticoste
roid,” she says. “It will help decrease the swelling around the tumors.”

Hmm. Interesting. I’ll have to look that up when I get home.

His eyes flutter open, and meet mine.

“Hey, Red,” he says.

I chuckle. “I still think it’s weird you call me that.”

“It isn’t weird. It’s our thing,” he says, smirking. His eyes look clear today, no confusion in them at all. Today might be a good one.

“Are you comfortable?” I ask. “You’ve been sitting up like that all morning.”

“Yeah, I’d like to lie down more, please.”

The nurse butts in. “Can I get you to take these pills first?”

Aaron gulps them down with water. The nurse asks him a few questions, takes his vital signs, and decides he must be okay.

“I’ll see you later,” she says. “Call if you need anything.”

“Of course.”

I adjust the head of the bed until he’s semi-reclined. He doesn’t like lying flat anymore. The nurses throw around terms like “increased intracranial pressure,” but Aaron just says that lying down makes his head hurt.

So I’ll go with that.

I adjust his pillows. “Good?”

“Not yet.” He tugs on my hand, and pats the bed beside him. “It’d be better if you were in here with me.” Big puppy-dog eyes and a playful smile are my undoing.

I hoist myself onto the bed and snuggle in with him as best as I can on the small mattress. It isn’t easy.

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Aaron. I feel like I’m squishing you.” He’s gotten so skinny. I’m afraid I might break him. As much as I’m aching to be in his arms, I can’t bear the thought of causing him pain. Pushing myself up onto my elbows, I start to get up.

His long arms snake around my waist, and pull me back in.

“You aren’t going anywhere.” He grins. I grin right back. It almost feels like old times. Except for the teensy-weensy fact that he’s wearing a hospital gown, it’s attached to an IV, and he looks so, so tired.

I lay my head on his chest, and hear him breathe out a sigh of contentment.

We both needed this. The sense of being close, of physical contact.

Of love.

“How’s school going?” he asks.

“Ugh, don’t talk about school.”

My attendance this semester has been poor. I’m barely passing my classes, and some I know I’m failing. It makes me sick to think about it. But how could I possibly bear to be away from him when he needs me?

“Are your parents coming back today?” I ask.

“Yes.”

They were out here last month, when he was first hospitalized. They were exactly the way he described them. Not mean, exactly, but cold and aloof. They tried to convince him to come back to Ontario for treatment, but he refused.

“This is completely unacceptable,” Mrs. Page had said. She is a striking woman. Aaron looks so much like her.

“You’re coming home, Aaron. You can get better treatment there.”

“Mom.” He sighed, frustrated. “I’m in the end stages now. They can’t do anything different for me than they’re already doing here. Besides, I’m too ill to travel.”

She stared at him for a moment. I could see pain and concern etched into her features. And, perhaps, a bit of disappointment too.

“I see.” That was all she said to him.

I don’t begrudge them being here. Aaron is their son, after all. Their visit just felt so tense, and I felt awkward being there. I hope this afternoon goes better.

I run my fingers over his tattoos, tracing each word. On the left forearm:

The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.

The words that once were so beautiful to me now seem cryptic. His right arm is wrapped tightly around me, but I don’t need to see it. I know the words by heart.

The true paradises are the paradises that we have lost.

I remember him telling me about the tattoos on his arm representing the Garden of Eden:

“I chose it because it represents perfection. What life could have been, before corruption. It’s about wanting an ideal, but never ever being able to attain it. About what life could have been, and should have been, but can never be. It’s bittersweet, and for that reason, it’s beautiful.”

I think about what life could be, what it should be. Even though he’s still in my arms, I’m heartbroken.

“What’s wrong, babe?” he whispers between my snuffling.

“Your tattoos…they rip me up.”

“What?”

I explain my feelings. Every now and then, I feel a hot tear from his face fall onto my forehead.

“There’s one thing that’s good,” he eventually says.

“How could anything good come out of this?”

“Let’s say I was going to get cancer, no matter what. Even though I’m pissed off that I’m sick, I would rather go through it with you than alone. I would rather die knowing that I loved someone with all my heart, and that she loved me back. I never knew…” He chokes up.

“Shh…it’s okay,” I cry. “You don’t have to tell me any more.”

“Yes. I do.” He laces his fingers with mine. “Before you, Sophie, I didn’t think anyone could love me for me. I knew my parents loved me, in their own way, I knew girls looked at me, and thought I was good-looking. But you
see
me. And love me anyway.”

“It’s impossible to not love you. You’re too wonderful.”

His laugh is a broken chuckle, as if it had forced its way through a sob.

“That’s why you’re the girl for me. I always knew I would be with you, Sophie. One way or another.”

I sigh, remembering. “That day at the nursing lab.”

“No, that wasn’t it.”

I prop myself up and turn to look at him. “It wasn’t?”

“No. It was the day before our classes started. I was walking around campus, feeling very bored and lonely in a new city. And then I saw the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes on.”

I snuggle into his chest and smile.

“You looked completely edible, standing there in your cutoffs and Rolling Stones T-shirt. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

“Please don’t tell me you saw what I did next,” I say.

“That was the best part! I watched you and Sam join in with those belly dancers, wearing all the bright colors and coin hip scarves. You looked so alive, so free. And sexy,” he says, while tickling my ribs. “After that, I just knew.”

New happy tears spring into my eyes, and I gaze into his beautiful pale green ones.

“Don’t you see, Soph?” he pleads, “Even in my darkest hell, with you here, it feels like heaven.”

Tears spill out of my eyes, and we kiss. In that kiss, we pour out all of our hearts and emotions, all things said and unsaid.

“Hey,” I hear Samira quietly say from the doorway.

We glance at her, and our foreheads naturally lean toward each other’s.

Sam’s eyes light up, and she digs out her camera.

“Don’t move.”

Chapter 22

Paint It Black

June 28, 2009

I’m sitting on my bed in Samira’s house, staring at the wall. I’ve decided to stay here for the summer, as school will start again in a few short weeks.

I can’t believe that Aaron…

Tears blur my vision, and my brain is smothered in a thick cloud. He’s the only thing I can think about. The time we shared together, the plans we made.

And it’s all gone.

His last few days are on a constant repeat in my mind.

This was supposed to be one of the best years of my life. I glance out the window, staring blankly at the leafy trees and warm sunshine.

It’s summer. And all I feel is cold and numb.

A Week Before…

I walk into Aaron’s hospital room and see his parents sitting beside the bed, their chairs pulled up so close that their knees touch the mattress.

His eyes are closed; he’s deep in sleep. He’s been sleeping a lot lately.

I pad quietly toward his bed, and lay my hand over his.

It’s cold. But he’s breathing. I’ll take what I can get.

I squeeze his fingers and smile sadly at his sleeping face. I feel a pair of eyes latch onto me. Aaron’s mom, Martine, is staring at me, her eyes like emerald fire.

“I suppose it comes as no surprise that I am not your biggest fan,” she breathes out, her words colored with a slight French accent.

“I-I’m,” I stammer, not sure of how to respond.

She holds a hand up. “You see, if it weren’t for you,” she explains, “he would’ve come home and received better treatment. He could’ve lived.” She leans forward, enunciating each word.

“It’s. All. Your. Fault.”

I can’t breathe. She’s found the most vulnerable part of me and thrust a dull, rusty knife right into the center of it.

“It was too late when he finally went to the doctor,” I croak. “The specialist said it was inoperable, and the chemo and radiation didn’t even touch the tumor. Believe me, I tried everything I could, I encouraged him to go see a doctor in the first place…”

I’m talking a mile a minute.

I’m trying to explain my way out of it, trying to rationalize everything.

Because, on the inside, deep down in my soul, I feel like it really is my fault.

I could have noticed the symptoms sooner.

I could have made him see a doctor sooner.

Coulda, woulda, shoulda.

And now it’s too late.