The second week of July, Tommy took a turn for the worse and I couldn’t deny that it was too much for me to handle on my own. He would stop breathing for what felt like a minute at a time, gasping for air like a fish out of water. I was afraid to leave his side long enough to go to the bathroom, and CeCe was so scared she wouldn’t get closer than our bedroom door.
I probably would have put off calling hospice for another few weeks, but Jill convinced me that having their help would be good for all of us. I thought it would bother me, having strangers in my house. But from the first day they came to set up a bed down in the living room, I knew they weren’t strangers. They were angels.
And now, walking into Dox Pharmacy armed with a shopping list from Dolly, one of the hospice nurses, I’m relieved not to feel so helpless for once. I drop the new prescriptions off at the pharmacy before going up and down the aisles in search of everything she thought might help. They’ve already helped, just by being there.
I glance down at the list, looking for the one thing I know isn’t there. I asked Dolly three times, but she kept saying I didn’t need to get any snacks for the nurses, but she’s wrong. I need to do something nice for them, so I detour down the snack aisle, grabbing anything they might like.
My cart filled with a variety of chips and candy, I head over to the freezer aisle for a box of the Fla-Vor-Ice pops Dolly said would be both easy to eat and soothing for Tommy’s throat. Next, I grab a few packs of bendy straws—another ordinary thing I never would have thought of. They are going to make it so much easier for Tommy to have a sip of water when the bed is reclined.
This is the kind of stuff Dox should be sharing with their customers. Not the hogwash they have us put in their brochures and emails, empty lines about how much they care about your family’s health, with obvious tips like washing your hands during cold and flu season. If they really cared about their customers, they would share tips like this.
Rolling my cart down the over-the-counter-medicine aisle, I grab a pack of ZzzQuil, which I assume is for me, since sleeping is not something Tommy has trouble with anymore. I wonder how they knew I’ve been up all night, almost every night. Afraid to go to sleep in case Tommy needs me. I make a mental note to pick up some more under-eye concealer in case the dark circles gave me away.
Next on the list is the one thing I don’t want to buy. I hesitate in front of the aisle, staring at the shelves stocked full of diapers, formula and pacifiers. I’m flooded with memories of the first time I bought Tampax, the first time I bought a pack of condoms. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to buy a baby monitor, but it is the most depressing.
The process of death is so damn patronizing. I understand the logistics of having a monitor so I can keep an eye on Tommy down in his bed while I’m upstairs in mine—but would it kill someone to package a baby monitor a little differently so it’s easier for a wife to buy for her dying husband, a grown man?
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. The last thing I need is to have another panic attack right here in the goddamn baby aisle. I rest my hand over my heart and breathe in and out slowly. I close my eyes and continue to breathe, counting my breaths.
“It gets easier,” a woman says as she walks by. “And it gets harder; just wait till they can talk!”
I cringe and exhale with purpose. The universe, it seems, has the same sense of humor that Tommy does.
My phone buzzes with a text from the pharmacy that the prescriptions are ready—a service we advertised with a “fill your cart while we fill your script” messaging. At least this is one thing that has proven to be useful.
“Lexie?”
I turn at the sound of my name, a fake smile plastered on my face to make polite conversation with someone who may or may not have heard about what’s going on with us. It’s a small town, and bad news seems to spread.
When I see the face that the voice belongs to, my lips tighten back into a disapproving line. Like a living page of the “stars are just like us” magazine spread, Monica Whistler is standing in front of me, a prescription bag in her hand. If there is any justice in the world, her Rx is for something painful like hemorrhoids.
“I thought that was you,” Monica says. She walks closer to me and puts her hand on my arm. I pull away and step to the other side of my cart so there’s a buffer between us. “I have been meaning to give you a call and apologize. I am so sorry about the little mix-up with CeCe.”
“Little mix-up?” I say, not believing the audacity of this woman.
“What are the odds the producer had promised the same role to a different girl the very same day?” Monica laughs and it takes everything in my being not to slap her across the face. “But I promise, I’ll make it up to CeCe. If another part doesn’t come up, I’ll find a different way to help her out. Tom said she’s got a lot of talent.”
I bite my lip to stop myself from telling her that he goes by Tommy now, evidence of the time that’s passed, proof that he’s mine now, not hers.
“I could make some introductions.” Monica is still talking. “It’s the least I can do.”
“No,” I say, a little too abruptly by the look on her face. “You’ve done enough.”
Before she can say anything else, I push my cart back down the stupid baby aisle and away from the pharmacy counter, where Tommy’s prescriptions are waiting. I’ll go through the drive-through or come back for them later.
There’s a line at the register, so I stand there with my foot tapping, looking behind me every few seconds to make sure Monica isn’t standing there. The woman checking out is making small talk with the cashier, and I’m considering just walking out and leaving everything there when another register opens.
“Did you find everything okay?” the cashier, an older woman with blue-gray hair and too much red lipstick, says.
I give her a curt nod and continue to empty the cart, hoping she will get the sign that I’m not in the mood to talk. I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t want to make idle chitchat even more.
“Looks like you’re having a party,” the cashier says, scanning bag after bag of the chips. She picks up the baby monitor next. “A baby shower?”
I can’t bring myself to answer so I just stare past her at a poster we worked on last year for the refresh of their loyalty card program.
Once the last item has been scanned and bagged, the woman makes eye contact and smiles so wide I can see a spot of lipstick on her front tooth. “Would you like to donate a dollar for cancer research?” she asks.
All of the rage that has been building inside of me bubbles up and I snap. “Why in the hell would I want to do that?”
The cashier takes a step back, shocked. I know I should say I’m sorry and leave, but now that I’ve started, I can’t stop.
“Do you know how much money I’ve donated over the years to cancer research? And what have they been doing with it? I can tell you what they haven’t been doing—they haven’t been finding a cure for small-cell lung cancer. So why would I give them another fucking dollar when they can’t give me more time? Is that too much to ask?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the cashier says. Her chin quivers and I feel like the most heartless person in the world.
Behind me, someone sets a hand on my shoulder, and I turn to see Monica staring at me with sad eyes. Make that the second most heartless person in the world.
“I can’t.” I slide my card through the credit card machine and stand there for what feels like an eternity before I can sign my name and roll my cart out the door.
Somehow, I manage to keep myself together until I’m in the car, the door locked behind me. Of course Kleenex wasn’t on the shopping list. I find a brown paper napkin in the armrest and wipe my eyes. The rough paper scratches, but the physical pain can stop, it will heal. My heart is a different story.
I drop my head into my hands and let myself cry, sobs shaking my shoulders. I let it all go, getting it out of my system before I head home to put on a smiling face for my family.
The knock on the window is so soft I almost think I’m imagining things. But I look up, and Monica is standing there, her face looking even more forlorn than before. The woman really can’t take a hint.
I shake my head and turn the car on, hoping she’s smart enough to get out of the way before I start backing up. Because if she doesn’t, Tommy won’t be the only one who needs end-of-life care.