The Counting-Downers (36 page)

Every slow step I take toward him goes too fast. Before I know it, we’re face to face, eye to eye, heart to heart, hand to hand, soul to soul. Not for the first time, but for the beginning of the rest of our lives.

Watching on from a table underneath the floral and fairy-lighted wedding Chuppah are framed photographs of my dad, Tristan’s parents, and his grandfather. Their faces lit by a solitary candle, they smile out at us; their two-dimensional eyes convey nothing but love and happiness at our union. It was important to both of us that they could all be there in whatever way they could. It sounds ridiculous but the photographs
feel
more alive than I’ve ever seen them, almost as if they’re thrumming with the energy of their presence and spirit. I hope so.

Although Tristan’s dad was liberally Jewish, and I’m still trying to make sense of my conflicting thoughts and feelings about the Christian faith I was brought up with, it meant a lot to us to honor our heritage by weaving in elements of where we’ve come from on the day that marks where we’re going. Tristan looks so handsome in his black tuxedo and golden bow tie, with his feet bare and a golden Kippah on his head.

Jacob became ordained online so that he could conduct the ceremony. Less rigid in his faith than his minister father, he was more than happy to hold a secular ceremony that included bits of Christianity, such as the traditional vows, and Judaism, like the
Sheva B'rachot
blessings, which Pierre will do.

I never break eye contact with Tristan until it’s time to exchange the rings. We both opted for simple platinum bands engraved with the words,
‘Forget-us-not.’
I’m so glad we waited the seven weeks it took for our casts to come off and our scars to heal so that we had no obstacles to this moment.

Then Jacob says the seven simple words that will join our lives until death parts them. As my lips lock with my husband’s for the first time to the sound of rapturous applause and the sight of our loved ones blowing dandelion wishes in our direction, I know that I’ve made the right decision in fighting through my fears.

Because I would lose him a thousand lifetimes over if it meant I had the chance to love him a thousand times. And have him love me back.

If only for a little while.

WE TAUGHT EACH other how to live, and in doing so, taught each other how to die. For one cannot exist without the other. Life means death, and death means life.

Although that may be true, whoever said life was a circle was wrong.

Life is a straight line, with a beginning, middle, and end. And we’re nothing more than players in a cosmic game, drawing random straws of different lengths to determine who goes first and last.

We didn’t write the rules of the game, but we have to live by them. Grains of sand at the mercy of the fickle dancing wind.

In the end, the size of the straw doesn’t matter. You can drink the world’s best milkshake with a short straw, or spend your life only drinking water with a long one.

With all the options, choices, questions, paths, consequences, and decisions you make over the course of a lifetime, I guess in the end, it only ever comes down to two real choices—to live or to die.

We’re all dying; so if you know the inevitable is coming, why rush it and choose to die before you die? Or to die before you have the chance to live?

And if you choose to live, you had better do so with every ounce of marrow in your bones. For life without living is dying by default.

There’s only ever living and dying, with life in between.

And while there’s a billion ways to die, there are also a billion ways to live. Rarely do we have a choice in the former, but the latter is all in our hands.

I choose to live like we have forever.

He chooses to live like there is no tomorrow.

We choose to live together for as long as we can.

Making the most of the time we have left to

L O V E,

L I V E,

L I F E.

And to paraphrase Robert Frost, the one thing I know about life is that…

It. Goes. On.

And so must we, living and loving all the way to our destined demise.

“THESE FLOWERS ARE for you, angel,” I say, crouching to lay the small handpicked bouquet of forget-me-nots and white roses at her feet.

“Tankoo, Pappa.”

My dimples deepen as she leans over and kisses my cheek before toddling back to her game on the grass.

“And these,” I say turning to my beautiful wife, “are for you, my love.” She leans up to take the larger version of the flowers I’ve just given our daughter with a smile.

“Thanks, Goldilocks. These are beautiful.” A calm peace settles over me as I watch her bend as much as she can to inhale the soft scent of the flowers.

“They’re the same ones I give you every Tuesday.”

“I know, but that doesn’t make them any less beautiful.”

Ever since we came home from our honeymoon under the Northern Lights in Norway four years ago, I’ve kept my promise to be the kind of man who planted flowers for her. Every Tuesday I handpick a bunch from the meadow and give it to Matilda ‘just because.’ When Daisy turned two three months ago, I also started picking a smaller version of Matilda’s bouquet every week.

As well as their namesake, forget-me-nots have special sentimental value to Matilda and me, while the white roses symbolize an eternal, everlasting love that is stronger than death. I will love both of my girls long after I take my last breath. I’ll have to think of something to give my son ‘just because’ when he arrives.

“How’s he doing in there?” I sit next to my wife and caress her eight-month pregnant stomach where my son is sleeping.

“He’s good. He was dancing earlier when I had a glass of homemade orange juice but now he’s settled down. I’m sure he’ll wake up again soon at the sound of your voice.”

It’s true. He’s only breathing second-hand air, and I already have an incredible connection with him. I can’t even imagine how I’ll feel once he’s in my arms if I’m experiencing this infinite depth of emotion at just the
thought
of him.

After Daisy was born, I didn’t think I had any more room in my heart for any more love. I thought it was stretched to full capacity. But I was wrong. When those two lines showed up on the pregnancy test for the second time, my heart made room. It didn’t even have a choice in the matter.

But with infinite love comes infinite fear. I thought I knew fear. Falling in love and marrying Matilda filled me with fear like I’d never known. It still does. I wake up every day to this incredible life we’ve created together with a smile, before dread descends once I look at her, or to be more specific, at the countdown above her head, and realize that she’ll only experience it for another twenty-one years.

I don’t know how long I’ll be around, but the fear that accompanies any thoughts of Matilda leaving me, leaving
us
as a family, leaves a constant chill in my warm blood. Still, however scared I am at the idea of being without her, it’s nothing compared to the desperate dread of our children one day being without her. I’m terrified for them. I don’t want them to end up young orphans as I was, but I know I don’t have any control in the matter.

I guess that’s the root of my fear, of all fear. How can you be anything other than petrified once you realize that you have little control over your life and Fate? Even if you don’t believe in God or destiny, at the very least you’re still at the mercy of Mother Nature and chance. There comes a moment when we realize we’re not invincible; we’re the exact opposite. Even the strongest amongst us are helpless.

And thanks to Matilda, I don’t mind
me
being vulnerable, but I don’t want my kids to be. I’m supposed to be strong for them, to protect them from everything and everyone. But I can’t protect them from life. And I can’t guarantee I won’t leave them to face the difficulties of life alone. All I can do is hope for the best and prepare for the worst.

Matilda told me about this great idea she’d heard somewhere of creating email accounts for our children and sending them letters, pictures, memories, random thoughts and pieces of advice that we’d want to give them. We’ll give them the login details on their eighteenth birthday, but if the worst happens and neither of us is around for that, the details are written in my will.

I know Matilda will be around until Daisy turns twenty-two and our son twenty, so at the very least she’ll be able to sit down and go through eighteen years’ worth of memories with them. I’ve already started emailing things to my son like photos of him in his mother’s stomach and telling him how much I already love him. I know Matilda is doing the same. Even if we both have to leave them before they truly start to live and create their own lives, they’ll have tangible pieces of us they can revisit whenever they want.

It was bittersweet when Daisy was born and we saw that she had 84 years, 9 months, 28 days, 5 hours, 31 minutes, and 12 seconds. The overwhelming euphoric relief that our daughter would live a long life was swiftly dampened by the thought that she’d have to live without her mother for sixty of those years.

Not for the first time, I take a moment to be thankful that we have an amazing support system around us. Matilda’s mother, Genevieve, still has just over thirty years left, while Oscar, who Daisy adores, still has sixty-two years left. Then there is our close circle of friends who are wonderful aunts and uncles, and will be around for our children if the worst happens and neither of us can be.

And, at least, they’ll have each other. Once I’d managed to persuade Matilda it was worth having children, we both agreed that we’d only have two who were close in age. At just over two years apart, it’s our hope that they’ll grow up closely knit and support each other for their whole lives.

It’s also in my will that my wife and daughter will continue to receive flowers sent to them from a florist every Tuesday for the rest of their lives. I’ve set up a fund for my executor to arrange. Even if I’m no longer around to plant and pick them, they’ll always receive ‘just because’ flowers. I’ve made as many provisions as I can for my eventual death, but every day something new comes up that I think or worry about. I guess that’s part of being a parent though.