Tonight, after the lights are out, we talk about death and the things that have changed us. How we are no longer people who use the phrase "if I die." There are certain things, illusions perhaps, that have been snuffed.
Hard weekend, bad news about friends. The price treatment demands is high, and there should be some guarantee, but there isn't one. This makes me want to bang my fist on an oak table somewhere, crumpled papers in my hand. "Give us what you promised."
On Friday, my therapist (who was just finishing her own treatment when I became her patient four years ago) said to me: "We never talked about what would happen, how you would feel, if I had a recurrence."
(The answer: sad, mad.)
The scent of the blooming jasmine on my nightstand permeated the room while I imagined those snuffed out things, dissolving in a cloud of fairy dust, perhaps forever. The fallacy of immortality: poof! The belief in something after: pop! The possibility of destiny, of not being alone, of anything but cold randomness, gone, all gone.
I am saying this while his voice gets softer around the edges. He is nearly asleep.
Saturday we went to see The Fault in Our Stars, just after reading an obituary for a nineteen year old boy. Melanoma.
Gone, all gone.
In the dark we talk about after. It scares him, he says. "But it's just nothing. Just like being asleep," I said. "Like before being born," he said.
After he's sleeping so deeply his leg is twitching every now and again, I look up hairstyles in my phone. Because if it's all a nothing I might as well watch a tutorial on finger waves, I guess.
Tomorrow, off for a blood draw, EKG. Getting cleared for surgery. I'm giving recon another try. It shouldn't be called "reconstruction." It's simply construction, or maybe even deconstruction.
We learned about deconstruction in 11th grade, and I've been intimidated by it ever since. We used it while reading Dubliners.
"His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
The cottonwood seeds are ending for the season. I only just learned what they're called.