Hank has studied appendix cancer on the Internet. If I have cancer, then my survival chances are fifty/fifty, according to the data. Having lost his sister and father to cancer in the past six months, Hank looks at me with wary eyes.
Before the surgeon comes into the small white examination room, Hank asks, “Am I going to have to carry you out of here?”
Sitting on the table, I smirk at him and then pretend to get hysterical over my impending death. We both laugh. We can’t help it. We may be in battle, but I am grateful for his presence in these cold, boring little rooms with their walls decorated by pictures of wormy intestines.
The surgeon enters. He’s a handsome, matter-of-fact fellow.
“The tumor was cancerous,” he tells us. Hank inhales sharply. “But we got twenty-four lymph nodes when we took out the portion of the colon, and none of them showed any signs of cancer.”
I sit and listen. Hank asks the questions. The surgeon believes they got all the cancer in the surgery.
“But is it possible that a few microscopic cells escaped?” Hank asks.
“It’s possible,” the surgeon says. Then he turns to me. “I’m sending you to an oncologist. You may need to get some chemo as a precautionary measure.”
I am already resigned to the idea.
After our visit to the surgeon, Hank and I stop for lunch at an Indian restaurant. I load up my plate with palak paneer, dal, and naan. We eat quietly, comfortably. I know that while my chances of survival are only fifty/fifty, my marriage’s chances are much worse. And yet today there is no one else I want to be with.
My mother called constantly while I was in the hospital. But I didn’t want to talk to her. I couldn’t even muster the energy to be around Emmy for very long when she came to see me after the surgery. Even now, Hank is the only person in the world that I can be with in my utterly joyless condition. He is simply a part of me, and we are dreamers, sleepwalking toward the end of our life together.
FOUR
LATE SUMMER 2008
With our differences irreconcilable, Hank and I decide to sell the house. Aside from repainting the bedrooms, the house hasn’t been updated once since we moved into it ten years earlier, and in upscale Charlotte no one is going to buy a house with linoleum kitchen counters. It needs so much work—new flooring, new bathrooms, and new paint, at the very least—before we can expect to sell it.
Fortunately, my mother has grown accustomed to her new surroundings, and I am freer than I have been in years. Which is a good thing because my life is divided now between helping Hank repair the house and escaping that house with Emmy.
Emmy leaves to visit a friend. She’ll be gone for a couple of days, which means Hank will venture out of his room and we might get some work done on the house. We’re going to repaint the living room and he wants to order a new bathtub for his bathroom.
At Home Depot, I follow Hank around listlessly and watch as he loads the flat cart with varnish, paint, two-by-fours, and two-by-tens. There’s some rotted wood on the front of the house that needs to be replaced. So much work to be done. We’ve neglected the house the way we neglected our marriage.
Hank grabs a strange ladder contraption that can transform from a regular stepladder to an extension ladder like those weird toys that kids love so much. I don’t help load a single thing. I can’t because of the operation. The nurse told me no heavy lifting for six weeks or I’d regret it. No exercise. No house cleaning. All I can do is read and watch movies. I even stop my yoga practices that I had been doing faithfully since last September.
I feel guilty for not helping Hank load the stuff onto the cart and then into the car, but I also realize he doesn’t have to be doing this by himself. He could have asked Emmy to help with all of this, but the few times she offered, he simply shook his head and pointed for her to get out.
We haven’t discussed the future; our only goal is to get the house in shape in order to sell it. Then we’ll have another bridge to cross. But today we aren’t talking about that.
Later I drive over to see my mother. I’ve just arrived when Mom tells me she needs to go to the bathroom.
“I don’t know if I can do it with my shoes on,” she says.
“Your shoes?” I ask, grabbing the walker and bringing it over to her wheelchair. She can still walk a little. She can take a few steps from the wheelchair to the toilet. “I don’t think your shoes will be a problem.”
“Well, they’re up.”
She means, I think, that her feet are on the footrests of the wheelchair and they need to be moved. She knows at some level that she’s not making sense, but we pretend that this is a normal conversation. In some ways, it is.
After her trip to the bathroom, she looks at me and says, “I love that dress. It’s so pleasing to look at.”
Then we go downstairs, she in her hand-pushed wheelchair, and I walking beside her. I’m not allowed to push her yet.
When we get to the dining room, she takes my hand and brings it to her cheek.
“You can do no wrong,” she says.
“I’m glad you think so,” I answer dryly and bend down to kiss her cheek.
Emmy and I decide to take our annual trip to Florida. This year it is especially important for us to get away. Before we leave I stand in my bedroom and look down at my finger. My diamond shines as brightly as ever. How often have I gazed at this ring, happy to have it on my finger? Happy to be married. But Hank has not kissed me since Emmy’s birthday. I feel more like a younger brother than a wife. I don’t see the point in wearing it anymore. I put it in a small cloth bag, and stash it in a drawer.
“It’s the divorce tour,” I tell Emmy as we drive out of town, Emmy’s iPod playing through the radio. Our hearts weigh as much as bags of bricks, but we will manage to have fun anyway. We will sing along to our music at the tops of our lungs. We will drink champagne with friends in Tallahassee. We will drive to St. Pete and stay with my dear old friend, who did time with me back before I ever thought of being a mom. We will meet Sadhguru in person. I’ve got a new green notebook, ready for work.
I’m scheduled to have an interview with Sadhguru at Cheryl’s house. Cheryl is the author of the book that I edited, and we both think that an interview will help get the word out.
On the drive down, Emmy seems so sad and lost.
“Maybe I should just give in,” she says. “I don’t want Dad to hate me anymore.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t want to influence her one way or the other, but if she doesn’t follow her dream, I know I will never forgive him.
At precisely ten o’clock, we enter Cheryl’s well-appointed new house, overlooking a golf course. Instead of his usual robe, Sadhguru is dressed in jeans.
Still sitting, he bows to me as if he knows me quite well and then reaches for my hand, as I awkwardly drop my purse on her glass coffee table. I’ve never been starstruck. I wouldn’t recognize most celebrities if they came up and kissed me on the cheek. But when he holds my hands for that brief moment I feel lightheaded.
“What have you got in there?” he asks with a laugh as my purse clunks on the table. “Sounds like something heavy.”
“It’s a present for you,” I stammer. “Oh, and this is my daughter.”
He smiles at Emmy. I feel completely ill at ease, like someone on a blind date. I hand him the jar of raw honey that I’ve brought and explain that I was inspired by the story he told in one of the programs, a story about some incredibly healthy beekeepers in India who live almost exclusively on honey. I have decided to start using it myself, because raw honey has antioxidants and (as he already knows) I’ve just had surgery to remove a cancerous tumor on my appendix.
“The honey is my chemo,” I tell him and sit down on the couch. My oncologist just a week earlier changed her mind about giving me chemo treatments. It seems that my cancer is so rare that they have no data proving that chemo actually helps. So they’re going to monitor me and hope for the best. The truth is, I’m not too w
orried about it.
Sadhguru is intrigued with Emmy, who sits on the other couch. I’m glad I brought her along. For one thing, she exudes a purity of heart that I haven’t had since I was four years old. I knew that he would see that. More importantly, I’m hoping he might say something that will help her gain some clarity.
Sadhguru asks Emmy what she does: is she a student?
“What?” she stammers.
“A student? Do you study?”
“I just graduated from high school,” she says. “And I’m going to take a semester to go to Massachusetts . . .”
“A semester?” he asks. He laughs heartily. “I don’t think it takes a semester to get to Massachusetts.”
She laughs and blushes. “No, I mean I’m going to spend a semester in Massachusetts, maybe, I’m not sure. But I’m going up there to work with a theater company. I’m very interested in social and political justice, and this company does a lot of plays that have been performed in prisons and battered women’s shelters. I’m going to work with them for a while. Then I’m going to college and probably study history.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Sadhguru says approvingly. “So many young people, you know, they are only interested in making money. My daughter is going to take four years of dance. Not because she wants to be a dancer but for the discipline.”
Sadhguru hands her a book that he has been reading called The War of Wealth.
“You will find out a lot about justice in that book,” he says.
Because I’m drawn to issues of social and political justice myself, I ask Sadhguru about his views on the United States. Sadhguru is careful not to publicly criticize this country or its government, and I can understand why. He is focused on one thing—offering a process to people who want to explore their spiritual potential.
This is not to say that Sadhguru doesn’t speak his mind. He is quick to point out that the lives we are leading right now in the US are not sustainable.
“When you can’t get what you need, then you have to go to war with someone,” he says. “It’s simply not a sustainable life.”
“What about the planet? Are we doomed? Is it hopeless?” I want to know.
“No, the planet will be fine. People may be in trouble but the planet will take care of itself. Nature will correct our mistakes if we don’t correct them first. That may become very painful.”
“Do we have the will and the ability to do that?” I ask.
“The ability, yes. The will? Not yet, but when it becomes painful enough, we will have the will,” he says.
No matter how dire his words, amusement plays on his face. His eyes shift from serious to mirthful in a moment. I’ve never met anyone so clearly authentic. He is the same man—in the book, on the dais, in videos, and sitting on a white sofa in Florida.
I ask him my interview questions. He answers them patiently.
Sadhguru’s message is clear: “There is an endless longing to expand. At the same time there is an instinct for self-preservation which is constantly wanting to build walls of safety and comfort. These things seem to be a contradiction. This confusion has arisen in our minds because we are too identified with our physical bodies. The instinct for self-preservation and longing to expand are opposed to each other. They’re not really opposed to each other. The boundaries of our body need to be preserved. Everything else within us longs to expand.”
We continue to talk about a range of subjects; his humor and wisdom are playful. When Sadhguru has answered all the questions I have for him, he turns his attention once again to Emmy.
“I like this girl, Pat,” he says, laughing.
“Her father disapproves of her plans. Mightily,” I tell him. Emmy shrugs to indicate she doesn’t know what to do about it.
“He’s supposed to disapprove!” Sadhguru tells her. “How else will you know that you really want to do it?”
Emmy thinks about it for a moment. Then she smiles that bright, happy smile. Our visit ends and we’re back on the road, heading to our next destination. We’re listening to the stereo and singing, “Cruel, Cruel Summer.” The Florida sky arches over us like a big blue tent. The highway unfurls like a decision made a lifetime ago.
A couple of weeks later I put Emmy on a plane for Massachusetts.
FIVE
AUTUMN 2008
In autumn our dog, Merlyn, who is only seven, becomes suddenly old and feeble. The veterinarian says he has an autoimmune disease. In other words, his immune system has decided to wage war on his body. The vet also says it will eventually go away. He is wrong.
When the dog first gets sick in October, he whimpers in pain and later howls in agony. I never realized a dog could cry, nor did I know that the sound could rip you in two. It comes on quickly though he’s acted lethargic for a couple of days. Monday night, after the vet’s office is closed, we realize the severity of the condition and that waiting until morning is not an option. We get him into the backseat of the car. I drive to the emergency vet (not daring to calculate the cost) while Hank tries to comfort our frightened pup.
At the emergency vet they tell us to sit and wait in one of the examination rooms. Hank doesn’t like to sit in doctors’ offices. He prefers to stand or pace. That’s what he did during my cancer ordeal. When my follow-up CAT scan, three months after the removal of my appendix, came back clear of any malignancies, I thought we could get back to the complicated business of dismantling our marriage, but now October has arrived and our dog has begun shrieking.
A day after our first trip to the emergency vet, Hank and I are hopping around him in panic as the pain pills and antibiotics apparently provide little or no relief. He whimpers and whines, and we are beside ourselves.
For the first time in months Hank and I cleave to each other while we weep, sure that we are going to have to put him down. We make five trips to the emergency vet in two weeks, spending hours on top of hours, waiting for some kind of information. After one of those trips, we leave him there for tests and an MRI. For the cost of the MRI, we could get and maintain ten healthy dogs from the pound, I’m thinking. But Merlyn is not a dog in the abstract. He is a being in the concrete—a dog whose face I know, a dog whose eyes have looked into mine with total understanding, a dog with whom communication has become second nature. Besides, Hank will not be deterred.
The MRI shows a mysterious inflammation of the muscle. Not deadly, we are told. And yet even after we know what’s wrong, we still have to bring him back again and again. The pain is not being managed.
I spend my days downstairs with my computer on my lap, working and watching over the dog. We give him pain pills and sleeping pills along with a variety of antibiotics and high doses of steroids. He wears a narcotic patch; we consider using it ourselves. Hank spends his nights with the dog. One night he stays on the living-room floor holding the whimpering, shaking dog. Hank often carries all seventy pounds of the dog outside several times a day.
After two weeks, we can take it no longer. Nothing seems to help him. This is no way for an animal or a human to live. Every time the dog cries, we want to puncture our own eardrums.
“We have to do it,” I tell Hank. “He’s not getting better.”
“He has to get the shot,” Hank agrees.
We are numb as I back the car to the front door and Hank carries Merlyn out and places him on the comforter that is now a permanent fixture of my car. We drive in silence up to the freeway.
“Hank,” I ask, “what is that dog doing?” I am looking in the rearview mirror at Merlyn sitting up, gazing out the window, his pink tongue hanging like a bell from his black mouth.
“He seems to be enjoying the ride,” Hank says.
“That’s weird.”
We pull up in front of the emergency vet; we’re old hands at this by now and Hank goes to get the rolling crib. I step out of the car and open the back door. Merlyn rolls his head to the side, smiles, and thumps his tail.
When Hank comes back out, I tell him, “Put him on th
e ground and see if he’ll walk.”
“He won’t walk,” Hank says.
“Let’s just see.”
So Hank puts Merlyn on the ground, and the dog stands up and begins tracking the pee of other dogs with his noisy snuffling nose. He looks just like any other dog wandering around a yard full of dog smells.
“I don’t think this is the day,” I say.
“No,” Hank answers, “today is definitely not the day.”
The vet tells us the steroids must have finally kicked in.
“Give him some time,” he says.
We bring the dog home and for a month or so we pretend to be okay. We work on the house, replacing an old moldy shower with a gigantic whirlpool bath, which we both land in when it’s finished, bubbles bursting over the sides, our slick legs rubbing together like happy fish. And wouldn’t this be a nice place to roll credits? The theme of the story would be that the trials and trauma of our sick dog somehow repaired our sick relationship, that Merlyn had lived up to his name and created some Hollywood-movie magic. Sometimes it really does work out that way. But not for us, not this time.
Soon our words are tiny missiles as we hide behind a stockpile of accusations: the car I had bought without consulting him, his last name that I had never taken as my own, his refusal to allow overnight visits from my friends and family, the abortion twenty years earlier. We are no longer screaming about Emmy and my support of her decision to go away for three months to study with an experimental theater company. We have worn that issue to a rag.
Finally, as Christmas and Emmy’s inevitable return approach, Hank decides to go stay with his family in California for a while.
I drive him to the train station. As he leaves we’re somehow back to being friendly with each other. I figure that when he comes back, we’ll continue to work on the house. As much work as it needs, we may never split up. He and Emmy will eventually reconcile. Of this, I am sure.
Wait Until Tomorrow Page 17
