This week has seen a sudden rush of activity, like my symptoms have finally woken up and remembered they have a job to do. On Monday, a dark depression overwhelmed me like an unstoppable wall of water. Barely able to put one foot in front of the other, I retreated to bed, just about managing to send a text to Pattie to let her know I wasn’t coming in. Work wasn’t an option.
Tuesday, day 58, felt a bit lighter. I could still feel the misery in my soul but sensed it was losing its power. I waded through it, determined to go back to work, to not let it claim me, telling myself that so many good things had happened and there would be more to come, even in the short space of time I had left. I had to believe this.
I made myself see the bright side: I have Harry returning this weekend, taking me away because he cares about me, and Isabelle, who is coming over after I finish work on Friday, something she hasn’t done in years. It’s symbolic. Huge, actually! She needs to see that my life hasn’t been the big, riotous singleton extravaganza she imagines and then maybe she’ll accept that she’s done pretty well, even on five out of ten.
But things moved on again. From my bed of misery to the recovery of optimism, Wednesday began with full-blown, head-over-the-toilet vomiting. I’ve been feeling nauseated for a while, but actual vomiting is a new development. And the nosebleeds have started. The information in the leaflets is becoming all too real.
Then today, day 56, the worst happened. I can no longer use work as a diversion. I was resisting it for as long as possible but Frank took the initiative. He took me aside in his office after morning conference where an untimely nosebleed seemed to startle everyone despite my protestations that it was nothing.
“You don’t look good, Jennifer. I think you might be pushing yourself too hard.”
“I’m fine, Frank. That nosebleed was unfortunate.” I don’t want to tell him I’m being sick, too, but it’s as though he can see through me anyway.
“Well, I don’t want you to struggle. I want you to go home and take care of yourself.”
“I need to work, Frank. I need the distraction.”
“I understand. I really do. But it’s not doing you any good now. You’ll find better distractions at home.”
“But what about everything I’m involved in? What about my team?”
“We’ll get cover, Jennifer. Just temporary. I’m not saying this is forever because maybe the rest will do you good.”
I know he’s trying to be nice, cushioning the blow. “It’s not going to happen, though, is it, Frank? It’s going to be permanent. Once I leave . . .” I feel faint. “That’s it. Isn’t it?”
“Oh, Jennifer,” he says. He sways disconcertingly, and I swear he’s trying to stave off tears. He lets out a huge sigh. “I’m so sorry. Truly I am. But you never know. Things may improve. Don’t give up without a fight. That’s not your style.” Frank knows nothing of my personal life.
“Thanks, Frank. For everything. I hope you’re right.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze. “We’ll make sure you’re looked after. Anything you need, and I mean anything, just call me. We’ll still keep your news to just Pattie and me. I’m sure no one will associate a random nosebleed with anything, and knowing what people are like, they’ve probably forgotten about it already. And don’t worry, I’ll keep Pattie in check. We’ll think of a way of explaining your absence. Compassionate leave maybe. No one ever questions that. It will account for the suddenness. And the lack of the usual party and cake.”
“Makes sense,” I say. “Although I’ll miss the cake.”
He gives a wry smile then grabs me in one of those unexpected big hugs. I smell the sweat of his armpits. Poor Frank. He must have hated doing that.
I’m crying all the way home. I know I’m being irresponsible and should go back to the doctor—I haven’t rescheduled that canceled appointment—and maybe I’m still in denial, but I’m hoping a couple of days with Harry at a spa will help. Of course if nothing changes, then I’ll go and see Dr. Mackenzie next week, but all he’ll do is insist I start taking the drugs. And perhaps I’ll have to. Maybe I’ll even want to.
I text Harry.
I’ve had to give up work. I’m devastated.
To my amazement a reply pings straight back.
Even more reason for me to spoil you x
I take comfort in his words, but the onset of my new symptoms couldn’t be worse timing. I wish they’d waited until after this weekend when he’ll undoubtedly be away again. It’s trivial in the scheme of things, but I don’t want them to spoil our limited time together.
Truth is Harry was never one for sympathy even when I had nothing worse than a cold. Or a headache. Or heaven forfend, period pains. I’m not sure why I’m putting all my deathbed expectations onto him. But credit where it’s due, he’s definitely more considerate. The shame is it took a terminal illness to change him. Why do we only appreciate what we’ve got when it’s put at risk?