The story of my life
They would have to mention you
With every page they'd write
There's another side to every story told
If I were the ocean
You would be the shore
And one without the other one
Would be needing something more
We are the shadow and the light............ Michael W. Smith
I have asked Ryan(husband) to be a guest blogger and give a little insight to what it is like to be married to "Cancer Girl"! I can not imagine fully what it is like on his side but I am thankful everyday that he is by my side.
"Cancer Girl" by Ryan Dowd
When Krissie first asked me to be a guest blogger for “Cancer Girl, The Blog” I had the same reaction that every other dutiful husband would: “What can I write that would make all of Krissie’s friends want to sleep with me?”
Now, I know that most of Krissie’s readers are women and that you are all mortified that a guy would think that. To all of you, I offer two thoughts:
1)
I do not actually want to sleep with all of you, per se. A guy just wants to be wanted, you know? (That argument sounded more compelling in my mind).
2)
Your husband/boyfriend secretly wants your friends to want him. If he says otherwise, it is probably because he wants to actually sleep with them. (If you want to know other things he is lying about, send me an email.)
Because I was on my second beer, I explained my thoughts to Krissie. She asked what I was going to do to get HER to want to sleep with me, because I was not helping the cause.
I told her I was serious… I could not think of anything that would make women swoon. She said that no woman has actually swooned since the 1920’s (and no one has used that word since the 1950’s), but that I should write about what it is
like to be married to someone who periodically has cancer.
Hmmm… that’s a tough one… I am not really a “catalogue my feelings” kind of guy, but I like to tell stories.
It was October 1998. Krissie and I had only been dating a few months, and I had taken a semester off from college to see her through cancer surgery. I was 20 and she was 18.
The doctor warned her that the surgery would be long and perilous. He was very adamant that he could not promise her that she would survive the surgery (she had a tumor in her stomach). I suppose he was trying to cover his ass from a
future malpractice case.
It was a morning surgery, so we had to be at the hospital in Chicago early to prep.
I remember we woke up very early—the sun was not yet up. I don’t remember being afraid, per se. It was not a paralyzing terror, but more of a clarity, an ‘awareness’ that heightened every sense in sometimes painful ways. I am not sure
if that makes sense, but that is how I experienced it.
When the alarm clock went off like a bell (was it tolling for Krissie?) I groped my way to the bathroom. The darkness of the morning had a depth and substance that is hard to explain—as if you could stick your hand into it like a pool
of oil suspended in the stillness.
Krissie and I both brushed our teeth quietly, taking turns spitting foamy mintiness into the swirling water. It was icy cold when I rinsed, like tiny shards of ice on my lips. I wondered if Krissie was aware that this was potentially
the last time she might ever brush her teeth. I was. Looking at our reflections in the mirror it was obvious that neither of us had gotten much sleep. We were old that morning, and not just physically. Our souls were old (but not yet wise).
I carried her bag out to the car, stopping to take in the cloudless night sky. The stars punctured the canopy, like so many rocks thrown through it by an angry God.
Was God angry? It is a fair question to ask on the day that someone you love might die. I was angry. Sometimes I give voice to my divine resentment, but mostly I just hold it deep inside in a vial like the poison that it is. I learned from this experience
that our faith deepens in unimaginable ways when we treat God like a lover who has disappointed us rather than a lifeless idol that merely receives our offerings in exchange for rain or blessings.
We got onto Route 88 and headed east (weren’t Adam and Eve sent east of Eden?) There was almost no traffic. It was fitting. We were going down a road that people of our age rarely travel. There is a strange “aloneness” that comes with
facing the potential death of another. Perhaps it is my introverted nature, but in the week before the surgery, I could be completely alone in a crowded room. It is not loneliness, just aloneness. There is a line in the song “Brick” by Ben Folds Five that
captures this feeling: “We’re alone. I’m alone and she’s alone.” I suspect that Krissie, an extrovert, doesn’t experience this feeling.
And then the sun rose.
It was absolutely spectacular, like watching the very first sunrise on the very first dawn.
And God spoke, “let there be light.” Crimsen reds and molten oranges first bubbled and then poured out onto the horizon, spreading north and south, beckoning forth life. I had never experienced anything like it before, and suspect that I never will
again. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t a gentle beauty. It was a violent splendor, tearing at me (I still have the scars). The sunrise—a vivid reminder of divine love and symbol of new beginnings—had no place on
this morning, which might be Krissie’s last. I would have preferred that the sun had not risen on that day at all. But it was more beautiful than anything I have ever seen in nature.
The mystics speak of the “thin places,” where the gap that separates us from God closes. That was not the first or last thin place I experienced, but it was one of the more profound.
That morning captures what it is like—at least for me—to be married to a 6-time cancer survivor. Krissie’s frequent proximity to death heightens my awareness of life in a way that is simultaneously beautiful and terrifying. I am more
cognizant of human mortality than anyone I know (except, perhaps, Krissie). Sometimes I experience it as anger, sometimes as awe, other times as gratitude.
Krissie has taught me to drink from the cup of life deeply and to appreciate every flavor, even those that are bitter or sour. I think I love more richly, forgive more quickly and laugh more loudly. Life, as fleeting as it may sometimes
feel, is glorious.
