by M. Leighton
What happened to the woman who stared back at me a few months before? When had I become this ghostly, sunken shell of Lena Grant?
Blonde tresses that used to hang in shimmering waves to just below my shoulders are dry and brittle and look more like hay than hair. Skin that used to hold a youthful glow looks sallow and paper-thin. Eyes that used to sparkle with life look dull and haunted.
I catalog everything from the dark circles under my eyes to the hollow cheeks, from the prominent collarbones to the bony shoulders poking out under my shirt. When did I lose so much weight? When had I begun to waste away? How has all this happened without me noticing?
Impulsively, I grab the nasogastric tube and pull it out, gagging as it passes the back of my throat. Without looking, I toss it into the trashcan and begin stripping off my clothes. I feel an almost frantic need to see my new reality while I’m still alert and oriented. I want to see what Nate sees, what my mother sees.
Less than a minute later, I stand naked in front of the full-length mirror that rests in one corner of the bathroom. In the shiny glass, I see the clawfoot tub behind me, luxuriously deep and inviting. I see the chandelier that Nate had rolled his eyes over when I pointed it out in a magazine. I see the pile of baggy clothes lying in a puddle beside the toilet, hastily discarded.
And then I see a body, a sick woman’s body.
My lackluster eyes travel over the gaunt image. I see translucent skin stretched thinly over my chest, every rib visible. I take in the skinny arms that hang by my sides, the wrist bones protruding grossly. I see breasts that are still full and round from pregnancy, although I wonder why I’m not engorged and hurting since I’m neither pumping nor breastfeeding. At least I don’t think I am. I can’t remember if I am.
Or maybe, considering my condition, I’m taking medicine that I don’t remember taking, to dry up my milk. Or maybe it’s a side effect of one of the other medications I’m on. At this point, I can’t keep anything straight.
Regardless, the one thing I do know is that I’m missing out on quite a few details of my life.
My gaze continues, on to the belly that is still swollen from pregnancy. I touch my stomach with trembling fingers, tracing the incision, pressing into the flesh above and below it. I feel the wave-like give of fluid just beneath the skin.
Ascites.
Despite the fact that my mind often swims with delirium these days, my years of nursing experience tell me what’s going on. Gathering of fluid in the abdomen is common in people with liver disease. And I have the ultimate liver disease—stomach cancer with liver metastases.
Warm tears leave wet tracks down my cheeks as I evaluate the rest of my body. Legs that I’ve always thought were a bit too thick are now thin, the skin hanging loosely around the insides of my thighs. I turn to one side and note the disappearing butt that I’d been self-conscious of once upon a time. Funny how that works, because now I’d give almost anything to have them back, to be that very healthy woman again. Not this…this…shadow.
I don’t know why Nate still looks at me as though I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. It’s far from true, and yet that’s what I see in his eyes. Every day.
Adoration.
Attraction.
Love.
Even through all of this, he’s my knight in shining armor. I always knew I had a good thing in him, but I might not have known just how good.
When I once again face the mirror straight on, I give myself one more head-to-toe glance. All in all, one thing is very clear. The aesthetics confirm the mental diagnosis that pops into my head. They’re as hard to think as they are to hear.
You’re dying, Lena Grant. And now you can see it.
A soft knock at the door causes me to jump. “You okay, baby?”
Nate.
I don’t know how to answer him.
With bitterness? No, Nate, I’m not okay. I’m dying, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it.
With pretense? I’m fine, babe. I’ll be out in just a minute.
Or with honesty? I’m not sure. I don’t even recognize myself anymore, and I’m afraid of what I see.
It turns out that I don’t have to answer him at all. When I don’t respond, Nate opens the door and pokes his head inside. I can tell by the look of alarm on his handsome face that he was half-expecting to find me dead on the floor.
The relief I see wash over his features tears at my heart.
“I’m okay,” I finally assure him, a wobbly smile tugging at my lips.
“What is it?” he asks, coming into the bathroom and closing the door behind him.
I start to cry. I can’t seem to stop the small mewling squeaks that wheeze past the tight knot in my throat. “I don’t even look like me anymore. When did this happen? How did I get here?”
“Oh, God, Lena!” he moans, dragging me against his chest to hold me close.
I know if he could, Nate would take it all away. That’s what his arms say every time they come around me. They say “I wish” and “If only” and “If there was a way.”
Only there is no way.
Not anymore.
“Where did the ‘blaze of glory’ go?” I whimper, losing the strength of will I’ve tried so hard to maintain.
Nate leans back and looks down at me with aching tenderness. “You did ‘blaze of glory’, baby. You’re still doing it.”
“N-no, I’m not. I failed.”
“You didn’t fail. You carried and delivered a baby while cancer ate away at your body. You’ve helped feed and care for her. You’ve given your husband hope every single day. You’ve laughed when you had every reason to cry, and you’ve gone out of your way to make sure the rest of us are okay when it’s you who you should be worried about. Lena, you’ve done ‘blaze of glory.’ No one could do it better.”
I’m distraught as I stare up into his eyes. “But look at me. I let it win, Nate,” I croak miserably. “I let cancer win!”
I can tell my words hit home. I can see the pain that he works so carefully to hide. Like the curved back of the Loch Ness Monster, it appears for just a few seconds before vanishing back into the murky depths from whence it came. To a place that only Nate can see.
“You did this your way. You didn’t let it win. You knew the risks, and you made the best choice for you. And you stuck with it. You did what you thought was right. I will always support you in that.”
“But I should’ve fought, Nate. For you. For us. But I didn’t. I-I was afraid. I was too afraid to fight. Even for you. And I’m so, so sorry, Nate. I’m so, so sorry.”
Devastation softens my knees.
Regret weakens my limbs.
As this last confession leaves me, so does the last of my energy. I crumple like crepe paper. Faster than my melting body, Nate catches me. He always catches me.
Always.
“It wasn’t because I didn’t love you,” I tell him brokenly, allowing him to sweep me up into his warm, comforting arms. I just don’t have the strength to stand. Or fight. Not anymore. “It’s because I was weak. And scared.”
“You’re not weak, Lena. And it’s okay to be scared. I’m scared, too.”
“But you didn’t give up on me. I did. I gave up, Nate. Can you ever forgive me? Please say you can forgive me, Nate. Please!”
I turn my face into the curve of his neck. I feel the thump of his back hitting the wall behind us as he relaxes onto it, looking for some support of his own.
His voice is torment.
It is agony.
It is anguish.
“Don’t do this, Lena. Don’t torture yourself. You’re one of the strongest, bravest women I’ve ever known. You did what you thought was best.”
“I chose wrong, Nate. I chose wrong.”
His next words are quiet.
Hesitant.
True.
“I bet Grace wouldn’t say that.”
Grace.
Our daughter. A piece of each of us in the form of the most bea
utiful child I’ve ever seen. I wouldn’t trade her for all the years in the world. For a thousand lifetimes. For a million healthy bodies.
She’s all we ever wanted. The missing piece of our family. She will be the one who holds my Nate’s hand not only when she needs it, but when he needs it. She has brought us healing and hope when there seemed to be none.
My jar was nearly empty before her. Now it is overflowing. She filled it. She is the light that I will take with me to heaven, the light I will carry with me for all of eternity.
A piece of me.
The best piece of me.
Thoughts of her bring perspective. Calm. Resolve. I exhale, my sigh sounding like her name.
Grace.
“No, she wouldn’t. And she is worth it, isn’t she? Worth all of this.”
I imagine that the sheen in Nate’s eyes matches the sheen in my own. There’s so much love between us, and because of that love and the love we have for our baby, I know that we could never fully regret my decision. It was either my life or Grace’s, and I know I’d make the same choice again if I could give Nate that little girl over and over and over.
“Thank you,” I murmur, brushing my lips over his.
“For what?”
“For forgiving me. And for reminding me. This is the only way it could’ve happened. God’s will.”
Nate says nothing at first, only watches me silently as he processes my words, words so unlike the woman he’s known for so long. I know it must seem foreign, but to me, it seems like a truth I’ve known all my life.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe there is a God, and this is His will.”
“I’m right, Nate. He gave me the choice between my own life and yours, hers. I made the right choice. I would choose you two every time. Again and again. I guess I just…I guess I just lost sight of that for a few minutes. I…sometimes I don’t feel quite myself.”
Oftentimes, I don’t. I feel like some strange amalgamation of the old Lena and a strange new Lena, of her old memories and her wildest dreams. Reality, for me, is an odd mixture of elaborate fantasy and unspeakable horror.
“I love you. All the different yous.”
“And I love you for loving me that way. I know it’s been hard. But it’s almost over.”
I hadn’t intended to drop that bomb on him in such a casual way, but here it is, out in the open.
Nate tucks his cheek against mine, and I feel his sharp intake of breath. I know he’s fighting back a surge of emotion. I recognize the signs.
“I will always love you. Every part of you. There will never be another one like you. Never. Not for me. And just so you know, I would do this all again, fall in love with you over and over, no matter how long we’d have together. You’re worth it, Lena. You’re worth everything.”
His voice cracks at the last, and he pulls me tighter against his chest and slides his face down into the curve of my neck.
This time together, here alone, near the end... It feels poignant and powerful and somehow significant, like we are communicating more deeply than our words. Sentiment swirls around us, weaving in between the spoken things, tying them together with truth and honesty.
His heart is as raw and open as mine. We are naked to each other, nothing between us but truth. And I don’t want this moment to end. Not yet. I can’t bear to break the magic of it.
“Can you help me in the shower?” I ask tentatively.
I don’t want us to spend my last hours mourning this way. I want to give my husband good memories, especially now.
I feel him nod.
Silently, he crosses to the shower and sets me on my feet as he reaches in to turn the spigots. As the water heats and steam begins to fill the room, Nate starts to undress.
There is a sense of finality in his every movement, as though he knows that this will be the last time he will remove his clothes for me, the last time he will touch me in the shower, the last night we will spend together.
I feel the same way, only I know.
I know.
Moving his hands out of the way, I set my fingers to work on the buttons of his shirt, slowly divesting Nate of his clothes. I cherish the feel of the soft cotton against my skin as I shift against him. I relish the smell of his cologne tickling my nose. I revel in the warmth of his closeness, searing me all the way to my bones.
If I’d had a last wish other than to see my daughter safely into the world, it would’ve been this: To spend these minutes alone with my husband, even if I’d never have thought to ask for it.
Finally, we stand bare, staring into each other’s eyes. We stay this way for several heartbeats before we both turn at the same time and step into the shower.
Together.
One last time.
Every moment seems especially significant. Every look, every touch, every whisper of breath into the stillness is the last of its kind.
The last we will share.
With excruciating tenderness, Nate bathes me. He massages my skin with his soapy hands, making small circles that ease the tension in my muscles. He kneads my thin arms, rubs my swollen belly. He even gently cleans the irritated tip of my nose where it’s been taped up for so long.
And when I’m too tired to stand, he helps me to sit on the tile bench and finishes, even washing the sensitive space between my toes. He worships every inch of me, kissing the arch of my foot, the bend of my knee, the curve of my hip. With every stroke, he tells my skin goodbye. He misses nothing.
Quite simply, Nate loves me. With his whispered words, with his careful hands, with his broken heart, he loves me. He tells me I’m beautiful, even now, without saying a word. And he tells me goodbye, too.
With every stroke, he tells me goodbye.
Afterward, as he carries me out of the stall to dry me off, I breathe into his ear, “I will love you forever. Dead or alive, I will be yours, wherever I am.”
“And I’ll be yours. Always.”
Always.
That says it all.
There is nothing left to say.
********
Dinner is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Every flavor explodes on the surface of my tongue, and every bite is like the first I’ve ever taken. It’s more than a last meal. It’s a last experience.
I take my time and chew thoroughly, not wanting to mar the moment with choking and hacking. Eating had never been a chore before, but has certainly become one recently.
Although I am thrilled to have eaten a quarter of the steak Nate grilled and nearly a third of the small pile of potato I scooped from the peel, everyone else eyes my accomplishment with concern.
The message is clear.
And they all know it.
Nissa stays to help clean up. She and Nate are in the kitchen when I spot a bright blink through the patio door and get a better idea.
“Nate! Nissa!” I call. Both come running, alarm carved on their faces. “Let’s go catch lightning bugs. With Grace. And Momma. You can film us, can’t you, Nissa?”
Although her smile is soggy, my friend nods enthusiastically.
Wordlessly, Nate collects an empty Mason jar from the cupboard and brings it out. He hands it to Nissa along with his phone and then stoops to scoop me into his arms. His expression is meant to be neutral, I know, but I can see the way his mouth is pinched at the corners.
Bittersweet.
I feel it.
And he feels it.
I rest my head on his shoulder as we all make our way to the patio. I look out at the view—my home, my yard, and the night—with eyes that strain to memorize every last detail. I take in the white rattan furniture I fell in love with on one of our trips to the beach. I take in the cheerful row of pink and red roses that sway gently in the breeze. I take in the perfectly manicured lawn that I can’t remember Nate cutting this year, as well as the cobalt sky that is coming alive with the yellow flash of lightning bugs.
I’ve been happy here, with my husband, in our home. So happy. We’ve been so blessed
, even when I couldn’t see it that way, when I’d been more aware of what we lacked—a child. But I can see it now. I can see all the smiles, hear all the laughter, feel all the love. This is home. And I wouldn’t want to die anywhere else.
When Nate moves to set me on a lounge chair, I pat his chest in protest. “No, I want to hold Grace while you and Momma catch them. Is that okay?”
I wanted to be the one to capture the little bugs for my daughter, but I know my level of fatigue is too great to risk it. It will likely be all I can muster just to hold my daughter out in the yard as the others do the catching.
He nods. “Of course, baby. Just let me know if you get too tired.” Gently, Nate lowers me until my feet touch the pavers then reluctantly releases me, his fingers lingering as though each digit knows the opportunity for moments like this is coming to an end.
With a smile that I feel light me up from the inside out, I approach my mother and daughter. Grace is awake and sucking on her pacifier. When I lean over her and grin, Grace smiles and coos as though she knows that her momma is close and she can feel the laser beam of love coming at her.
I hope that’s the case. I wish that I could bottle my love and leave it for my daughter so that she’d be able to take it out and let it warm her whenever she’s feeling cold or blue. Since that’s out of the question, though, I pray that the videos will suffice.
“Hey there, beautiful,” I whisper as I take my child from my own mother’s arms. Momma attempts a smile, but it looks more like a rickety grimace. I shift Grace to one side and press my lips to my mother’s cheek. “Thank you for taking care of her today.”
Momma makes no response, and I understand why. What is there to say? Nothing that hasn’t already been said.
Turning and crossing back to my husband, the trio of adults steps out into the cool grass and walks toward the biggest cluster of light. I can’t stop the giggle that bubbles up as the grass tickles my feet. It’s as though I can feel each individual blade as it drags across my skin. My every nerve and sense seems hyperalert, and I’m committing it all to memory, a memory that will soon burn out like the glow of these lightning bugs.
Tonight, I know I will not only chase the lightning bugs, but I will do as my father did, and I will follow them as well. On to where they never stop shining.
