Lonesome for Bill

Life doesn't stop, even in the midst of a life-threatening illness. Activities press on, bills have to be paid, errands have to be run and other people go through their own dramas, (even though I expect everyone to stop and live mine with me).

Bill's dad moved into an apartment this summer (his mom is in a nursing care facility), and he really needs help clearing out the family home in Jacksonville, Illinois. He doesn't want to pay to heat the house through the winter, and the auctioneers have to get everything sold before the beginning of November, when attendance at an auction will make it worthwhile. When we came through from the west coast in late August, our plan was to go up and help do this in mid-September. When I was diagnosed on Sept. 14, that plan fell apart right away in the crush of appointments, tests and travel to Virginia.

Now that we had a window of a few weeks before my surgery, it was the right time to get this errand done, so Bill left yesterday morning. I was immediately lonesome, starting right when he pulled away, the first time that we've been apart for more than a day since this all began. After having had his full attention for the past month, I was sad and misty all day without him. How odd! We are the married couple that spends much of the year apart, and we've been doing that for more than 20 years!

We will celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary on December 6 of this year, and cancer is not what we had planned to do for that milestone event. (I was thinking more along the lines of a beach vacation with lots of tropical rum drinks)!

Despite that inevitable disappointment, these past few weeks have been some of the saddest, happiest, and sweetest times of our married life. I am reminded of the emotional intensity and closeness during our waiting times in late pregnancies, and the days following the birth of our children, a mental and soul-bonding of synchronous connection without words. A glance, a touch, a smile--all conveying a peacefulness of fullsome commitment. It is the same now, but with the added span of many years of shared experiences, some good, some not so good.

We speak now of the unspeakables, we share the tears and fears. We choose our words more carefully, gauging the other's ability to hear what we are compelled to say. I've noticed that we also choose at times to not speak of things until we are sure of what we want to say. We spend much of our time being kind and being funny and being affectionate to each other. We are more in tune with each other than I can ever remember being, even in the beginning.

This cancer is already changing us, and changing our marriage. We are even nicer when we are mad at the other. There is a sense that every moment counts, so it had better be honest, and it had better not be wasted. We are again reminded to treasure each other and our bond as a precious gift.

I occurs to me that we might not be able to run our lives the way we have in the past after this. I may not be able to bear having him gone for months at a time, and he may not be able to work halfway around the world without worrying to distraction about me. Our marriage doctrine of "separate but equal" may not work for us anymore.

Like everything else, we'll just have to wait and see what the future brings.