Chapter One

Oct. 24, 2005:

It was a day unlike any other when I got the news.

You told me you were going back to the doctor for another test to find out what was wrong with you since they had ruled out Hepatitis and Cirrhosis.

I’m sitting here at my computer writing an article when the phone rings and my world is changed forever.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” you say bravely. “I’ve got liver cancer.”

Inside I can’t breathe. It’s as if you are drowning suddenly and being pulled under by large waves and I cannot bring you up to the surface no matter how hard I try.

On the outside I say, “Okay” then barrage you with a million questions, something you wind up hating during the time you are alive.

You tell me what’s next and seem incredibly calm, determined to fight this thing, as you tell me, not afraid and optimistic.

You’re only 51 and we’ve been dating two years.

You’ve been at your company 19 years and promoted once, now serving as a supervisor on the night shift.

You always wanted kids and we were going to get married.

But now all that has been put on hold as you focus on what is most important – surviving.

I don’t know what to say or how to be. Only that you now have a free pass, a “Get out of Jail free” card to do whatever you want to do in your life, to me, to others, or yourself because you are now a cancer patient.

I’ve lost a lot of people in my life and some to cancer. I’ve lost some relatives and friends to cancer and even people I barely knew.

But I never had a boyfriend tell me he just found out he has cancer.

People ask me later if you knew somehow ahead of time since you talked about dying a lot, particularly the second year we dated.

I brushed those comments off at the time from you, telling myself you were just obsessed and pessimistic because of how your life was pre-cancer – full of depression, drinking, and in a bad marriage.

Now it’s been 24 hours since you gave me the news and you are heading back to the doctor for more follow-up. You don’t have great insurance but at least you have something.

Your family doctor seems pretty clueless.

Your uncle, a liver cancer survivor tells you enthusiastically that you are going to make it, that he made it and that you have nothing to worry about.

You tell your family but not your company, not yet.

All of your relatives are optimistic and rally around you via long distance phone calls.

You write your sister who lives out of town and tell her. You had just reunited with her and swapped letters and pictures and now you have to tell her that you are sick.

You haven’t seen each other in years.

I always said that I wouldn’t be a good caretaker in situations like these and I proved myself right although I surprised myself by making you laugh every chance I could to get your mind off things which you said you liked later.

You are afraid you’ll lose your job that you won’t be able to pay your bills but you aren’t afraid you’re going to die.

“I’m going to fight this thing,” you tell me. “Whatever happens, I want you to be happy. Nothing has changed. When I get better we’re going to………”

First the doctor tells you you have a huge tumor but they can’t find it, only that it is metastasis and it is shooting off lots of little baby tumors all through your body. They tell you you were probably sick two or three years before they found anything. They say alcohol is not a factor and there is a question of exactly where the cancer started. Maybe not in the liver. Maybe in the pancreas or colon but no clue.

They tell you about chemo and radiation and I cringe inside, my heart breaking as I imagine you bent over a toilet constantly after chemo, having heard horror stories about it.

I don’t want this for you. I so much don’t want you to suffer.

I just want them to find the tumor, zap it, and for things to go back to how they were.

It’s now been two days since your diagnosis and it feels like an eternity.

I have told my family and friends and prayers are being sent out.

You didn’t want people to know, didn’t want to be exploited, don’t want pity or for people to feel sorry for you.

You also don’t want to be asked constantly about your condition and you get sick of me asking how you’re feeling.

But it just seems like the only natural thing to ask and I thought to myself that if I don’t ask how uncaring does that make me seem?

Your laughter is something I miss. It resonated through the walls of my home, as you played with my dog, Ripley who you had bonded with, as you bathe him, as we crack jokes, watch movies, live in each other’s lives.

But all that has stopped now. Rarely do you laugh and when you do it doesn’t last long.

I’m still in a state of shock. I still cannot accept this though you seem to have, readily.

I can’t believe this is happening. To us. To me.

I take it personally and I’m pissed at God even though I know He has nothing to do with it, though my alcoholic recovery friends tell me it’s His will.

I refuse to accept that.

I will never submit to that.

Because if it’s God’s will that you get cancer then how do you explain how many people get it and don’t? It’s too random. What about kids and animals who get sick? How did they come to deserve it?

Your wife tells you that because you cheated on her you got cancer.

She is one sick ticket.

She is directly from hell.

She tells you she’s going to make you suffer, that now it’s payback time.

I hurt for you inside. Every day I surf the Net and give you info on your condition, treatments, hope, something for you to hold on to. I never give you any of the bad stuff and sometimes it takes me a long time to find anything good to pass on to you. But I don’t want you to know the truth. That the prognosis is bad, that there’s not much good news for you.

On the fourth day since you told me you have cancer you have by now gone back to work and I come to visit you as usual only this time we sit in your car on your break and listen to some of your favorite songs, holding hands, and talking about your cancer.

You tell me that you started reading The Bible again, something you haven’t done since your Catholic childhood days. I listen, openly, not caring for the first time that I’m not religious and never have been.

“People think that Heaven is where they’re going to be reunited with the people they love,” you say. “That’s not it at all. That’s not what it’s about.”

Even though I have never believed in Heaven and Hell I am dismayed to hear this. This means that if you die I won’t be reunited with you possibly one day.

Your mom has given you some wonder recipe passed down by her Hispanic heritage that is supposed to cure you along with a litany of prayers and, of course, whatever treatment the doctors prescribe.

You try to drink this concoction daily but can’t choke it down. She implores you to try while you talk to her on the phone and you do but you can only get down a little before you gag.

But soon you are able to drink it and you do the prayers religiously, faithfully, hopefully, hoping against hope that this is the answer.

Your wife often makes fun of you when she hears you on your knees praying out loud.

I think to myself that she is one messed up, cruel individual to rob you of your hope.

Or try to.

As it stands now she is not successful in robbing you of that optimism.

That comes later.

I want to take you in my arms and hold you, this big bear of a man, my love, my heart and soul. I want to comfort you, cure you, bargain with God to take me instead.

After all, you are a good person. I’m the one God wants if this is some sick master plan.

“Take me,” I beg Him. “I deserve this illness. Not him.”

I would gladly switch places with you to end your suffering, anything for you to not have to go through this hell.

Three days before Halloween and you go with me to pick up my Geisha costume for this party I go to every year. I wish you could be going with me.

Instead you marvel at the costumes and masks in the store, gazing at them in admiration and we laugh together.

On the way home you stop at a tortilla factory and buy the tamales you’ve been wanting for months that you have now decided to no longer deny yourself. You haven’t eaten them in a long time and you can’t wait to savor the delicious flavor.

I wait in the car while you go in and soon you are back with the big white bags smoking hot with delicacies, a big smile on your face.

For a moment it’s as if you’re not sick.

Then I remember you are.

The second passes so quickly that I don’t realize how meaningful this trip is for you and later I would reflect on it over and over among other memories.

We eat your treats at your place in the dining room, brightly lit with the t.v. on in the living room, sunlight pouring through the windows on what should be just a regular ole day.

But as the bottles of pills laid out on the dining room table suggest, it is not an ordinary day at all.

Nor will it ever be again.

Going to the Halloween party I felt so guilty, like “How dare I have fun?” while you’re sick. Yet you insisted I go because that’s how unselfish you are. The whole time I was there I thought about you, wishing you were there with me, unable to have a good time because you weren’t with me.

The whole time I’m there I’m wondering how you are at home, how you’re feeling, if you’re able to rest.

At this point you haven’t started any treatment because the doctors keep giving you different answers and say more tests have to be run.

You go to one center that is supposed to be great but they basically told you that without better insurance you’re out of luck.

We get information from the local American Cancer Society office about financial assistance, support groups, and other services they offer.

You fill out packets of information from various organizations hoping to get some help soon before things get really bad.

Your company is being great, your employees have rallied around you, helping you pick up the slack while you’re working, doing extra stuff when needed, and assisting you in any way they can.

I’m so glad you have such support in this area.

One day your men take up a collection of $200 for your expenses and they give it to you.

I marvel at this.

You continue to work every day and I don’t know how.

At this point you’re on Darvocet and driving back and forth to work but can barely do it. I worry about you getting in a wreck and about how you can work in your condition but you soldier on.

You have to work, you tell me. You’ve got bills to pay and I understand but I still worry.

You tell your best friend who lives next door about your diagnosis. But he’s an alcoholic and all he can do is disappear from your life, barely calling and stopping visiting.

Your neighbor across the street, with his usual demands, asks even more of you, not knowing your diagnosis. Then when he finds out he feels bad and offers to help in any way he can.

A few months before your diagnosis one of your dogs that you had for several years died of a long illness.

You used to tell me about when he was a puppy and about all your times together, walking him, teaching him tricks, and how gorgeous he was.

My mom tells me that so many people survive cancer and that there was hope, that you would be okay.

My sister was sorry to get my news about you and was her usual compassionate self.

My best friend who had heard all about you but never got to meet you was stunned and sympathetic.


Now when I send you emails I make sure they’re all happy.

I don’t want you to have a moment of sadness on top of what you have to deal with.

Every day I want to shout to people “Don’t you know my boyfriend has cancer? Don’t you see my world’s been turned upside down?”

Selfish, I know.

On the outside I appear to just care about how this affects you but inside I’m terrified of how this is affecting me.

I can’t imagine what you’re going through.

I keep thinking it’s just a bad dream and I’m going to wake up. We both say over and over that we just want to go back to how things were, rewind back to 2003 and 2004 in our high times.

We had been dating for two years.

I keep thinking about how we met in July 2003 but didn’t start dating till December of that year. I had taken my car to you to get worked on. You were recommended by a friend.

The first day I met you remember how we hit it off? We were cracking jokes while you worked on my car. It felt like I’d known you for years. There hasn’t ever been anyone like that for me. We started exchanging emails, email jokes and this went on for months as just friends.

Then on Dec. 28, 2003 all that changed.

Humor was a huge part of our relationship.

I remember your 50th birthday was a great memory for both of us. And on Valentine’s Day 2004 it snowed and stuck as you left my house in the morning for yours.

You immediately took to Ripley and loved him. You taught him tricks, bathed him weekly, and would give him treats. You two bonded as if you were his dad.

You remembered dates like no one would believe and could spin a tale with so much detail. You were so considerate, sensitive, funny, generous, protective of me, fun, and would help anyone. You helped a lot of people through the years.

You made your employees’ shifts easier with your joking attitude, always cracking jokes yet you were a great supervisor. You were a teacher and taught people many things. You rarely missed a day of work and even when you got sick and I would beg you not to go to work because you were in pain you would try to work anyway. You were always bringing me things from the company that you’d find, little treasures that people would throw out that you knew I would like.

We made a lot of plans. Going to Hawaii, getting married, maybe having a child. We had a lot of plans. You always wanted a Harley and after you were diagnosed you were going to get one but never did. You loved to cook, loved animals, and kids.

There was so much to you and I know I’ll forget to tell people many things.

You would call me “Silly Bunny,” “Baby cakes,” and “Mamasita.” I would call you “My Gingerbread Man.” You were a romantic, always surprising me with something. You were a good listener.

One of the things you told me after you were diagnosed was that I had your heart. You wrote me tons of love notes and love letters.

When your stepdaughter had her first child in October it was your pride and joy. You told me often that when you held the baby your pain went away.

Now you tell me you have found your purpose in life – To spread the word about God who you had found to kids, teenagers, your best friend and that maybe I could help you do that. You told me that when you recovered from cancer that you would be a different person and you always say, “I’m going to beat this thing.”

You always gave me compliments. You taught me a lot of things.

You used to ask me, “Will you still love me when I’m old and gray?”

You enjoyed going to Possum Kingdom Lake and Benbrook Lake to fish, swim, and boat.

Your favorite songs were the Hawaiian version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and “What A Wonderful World” from the “Good Morning Vietnam” movie soundtrack.

After you were diagnosed you had a spiritual experience and spiritual awakenings along and along and you would share them with me. It was incredible to witness.

I feel so lucky to have known you.

So many don’t know how great you are.