Chapter 47
Now
Each day becomes more precious.
Another day Michael is alive.
Sleep doesn’t come, at least not for me.
Michael’s cancer is winning the battle, but I refuse to acknowledge the evil growth slowly taking away another life.
Michael does his best to put on appearances, but I know he’s in pain. He limits pain medication to only the days when it’s too intolerable. These days, he has two choices—take something for the pain and sleep or pretend he doesn’t hurt and carry on as if all is well.
It’s February, and I’m thankful to have had a few more months with him.
There is no pain medication for my heart, but only the love and unselfishness Michael gives me.
He’s lost so much weight, but I pretend not to notice.
He is and always will be the strong man who gave me his heart.
He will always have mine.
Once again, I have taken a leave from work to care for Michael.
And together, we get through the day with tears, laughs, and watching our granddaughter together.
I know Bindi wears him out, but he will never say so.
I see the determination in his eyes, though his body is weak.
Today is a good day, he tells me. I don’t argue. Because, as a nurse, I know there are no good days when dying from cancer. There are only days.
Christmas was extra special this year, and we celebrated like there was no cancer.
Michael refused to let us think or talk about it—If it were that easy.
The house was decorated to the gills.
We all laughed when Michael flipped the switch, lighting up all the outside lights, and reenacted the scene from “Christmas Family Vacation.”
The neighbors all came over and stood around for the big reveal.
The cancer hadn’t yet taken its toll on him, and I prayed that, by some miracle, the cancer would disappear.
Sometimes, I wonder if it was as bad as now, and Michael refused to let us see it.
However, there’s no hiding it now.
His jeans, which once hugged his perfect body, now hang. He’s cold most of the time and wears flannels over his T-shirts. I make sure to keep the heat set higher than usual. It’s so sad what cancer does. Not only does it take away your loved ones, but it degrades one’s worth as a man or woman—the broad shoulders, the bulky biceps, the square masculine profile, all bony and sunken. I tell him he looks like a burly lumberjack in his red-plaid flannel shirt, and I see appreciation in his eyes for still seeing him as the man I always have.
When he holds me, I feel bones where I once felt muscle.
It’s all so sad, but we refuse to let it ruin our days together.
We talk of the future as if he will still be here.
Who will be president when Bindi grows up? Where she’ll go to college and what she’ll be.
Monica and Jordan will have a boy next when they decide to have more children.
I carry a plate of Michael’s favorite cookies into the living room and watch him looking out the front window.
“What are you looking at?”
I ask, setting down the cookies.
“Chocolate chip, your favorite.”
He turns around and gives that supportive smile.
“The snow.
It’s so pretty when snow first falls.”
“Says the man who cursed the snow and taught our daughter to swear.”
He laughs and comes to take me in his arms.
“My job was to teach our daughter the bad things.
Your job was to teach her the good things.
And…I say you’ve done a pretty good job at that.”
After he kisses me, he reaches down and grabs a cookie.
I love to see him eat and enjoy whatever he can.
“Mmm, it melts in my mouth. Here,”
he says, sharing the cookie with me.
I chew and smile into his eyes.
His eyes still hold that shine and love he had when he first returned.
I understand it all now.
How much he has taught me.
“Hey, grab your coat.
We’re going to make a snowman,”
Michael says.
“But…”
“No buts.
Today is a good day.
And…I want to build a snowman with my wife.
Go grab Bindi and bundle her up.”
“Michael…”
“Shh.
I want this more than anything.”
I take in a heavy breath and know there’s no arguing with him.
And it’s these things that are hard for him to do, which make him feel better.
It’s hard to watch, but I know I must do it if it is his wish.
“Okay.
Bindi is finishing her cookies in the kitchen.”
“Thank you,”
he says and slowly moves to the bedroom to bundle up.
I find Bindi at her kid’s table, enjoying her cookie with chocolate all over her face.
“Looks like someone likes cookies.”
She looks up and shoves more cookies in her mouth with the palm of her hand.
She then holds out both hands to show me the chocolate all over them.
“You want Grandma to clean you up?”
A big nod.
Picking her up, I take her to the sink and clean her face with a warm cloth.
“You even have it in your ears.”
Now clean and cookie-free, I ask if she wants to go outside.
She shrills with baby happiness and wiggles to get down.
“Go get your coat and boots.”
She pushes her little legs to the door where her bag lies.
Michael grabs her up, and she screams with more giggles.
“Grandpa has his warm clothes on.
Let’s get yours,”
he says and bundles her up.
I grab my coat and step into my boots.
When I open the back door, the wind whips in, blowing snow inside.
I look to Michael once more, but there is no stopping this.
He wants us to make a snowman.
With Bindi between us, both holding a gloved hand, we step down from the patio and take giant steps through the snow.
At least six inches that have fallen.
Bindi drops to her knees and gathers snow in her tiny hands, and Michael begins with Snowman Building 101.
“Press it together like this, see?”
He presses snow into a ball and hands it to her.
“Roll it in the snow, and it will grow.”
Snowball rolling lasts about three minutes until Bindi decides the snow is more fun to eat than to roll.
“Looks like it’s up to us, Grandpa,”
I say, and I help Michael with the snow.
Once the ball grows to our knees, Bindi gives it another shot and pushes the snowball around.
“Yeah, like that.
You’re doing it,”
Michael cheers her on as he prepares another snowball.
As I watch the two of them playing in the snow, I don’t see cancer and all the pain that comes with it.
Michael wants us to see only this—he and I and the life we’ve created.
And that’s how it should be.
Don’t give cancer a minute’s thought, he always says. Today belongs to us.
I gather pine cones and sticks for the arms and face of their snowman, now layered with three giant snowballs.
“Wow, did you do this?”
I say, bending down to Bindi.
She nods and rubs the snowman’s belly.
“Wait until Mommy sees it.”
Michael picks her up, and I hand her the pinecones to push in the snow for his eyes.
“Perfect,”
he says and kisses her big on the cheeks.
“Brr, you got cold little cheeks.
How about we go in, and Grandma makes us some hot chocolate? She smiles big with a nod.
Wrapping his arm around me, we kiss and carry Bindi back to the house together.
We leave our clothes in a pile to dry next to the door, and I gather the cups and cocoa mix.
Michael hugs me from behind and rubs his cold nose on my neck.
“Thank you.
That meant a lot to me.”
“Me too, Michael.”
I know he won’t like it, but I need to ask.
“How are you? Do you need me to get a blanket?”
“Only if you come and lay inside with me,”
he teases like there is no cancer.
“You have got yourself a date because I am freezing, and to curl up with this lumberjack is the only thing that can satisfy me.”
He laughs under his breath.
“You bring the hot chocolate.
I’ll grab the blanket.”
I pour cocoa into Bindi’s sippy cup and set her at the little table.
“Here you go, little Miss Snowman Maker.
She reaches for the cup, and I know she’ll be down for a nap soon.
Michael is lying on the sofa with the blanket open, waiting for me as I set two mugs on the table.
I quickly snuggle down and curl into his chest.
“Mmm, I love snuggling with you,”
I say and tip my head to kiss his chin.
“I love you, Jill.
Thank you for making me feel like a man.”
“You are a man, Michael.
And an awesome snowman builder.”
He squeezes me in, and I feel his ribs in my back.
“Are you getting warm enough?”
“Mm-hmm.”
I find his hands, cold and bony fingers, and lace them with mine, bringing them up to my lips.
“I love you too, Michael.”
A slight squeeze of his hand lets me know he’s heard me.
I then cover our hands up and nestle down into him.
I watch the snow come down outside through the gap in the curtains and think about the years I’ve spent looking out that window.
Michael leaving, and Michael coming back.
Monica going on dates and walking in at night, sometimes a little late.
I try to fill in the gaps from our voided years, but time has stitched together, allowing us time.
I feel Michael’s chest move in and out, and I’m thankful for each one.
Until they become smaller and farther apart, I squeeze his hand again.
A faint squeeze back, and then it goes limp, and his last breath lands on my neck.
He’s gone.
Tears run down my face as I watch the snow come down outside, and I think how, only moments ago, we all built a snowman together.
I silently thank him for making me forget that, for a short time, he wasn’t dying.
Bindi walks in with her blankie and teddy and crawls beside us.
I don’t speak and pull her into me until she falls asleep.
Maybe it’s better this way—too young and not knowing she will never see her grandpa after she wakes from her nap.
When I feel she’s deep in her nap, as much as I hate to, I slowly lift us, take her to the bedroom, and lay her down.
I walk back to Michael, who looks so at peace.
Like he’s sleeping and will wake to smiles and kisses on my face.
I sit down beside him and rub his chest, and see a note poking from his shirt pocket.
Pulling it out, I open the worn paper and read what Michael has written. It’s a list with things crossed off. It’s his bucket list.
One, walk my daughter down the aisle—crossed off.
Two, Jill loves me again; crossed off.
Three, marry Jill—crossed off.
Four, become a grandfather—crossed off.
Five, live the rest of my life with Jill—crossed off. And six, die with Jill in my arms.
Through the tears, I see Bindi’s crayons spilled along the coffee table and pick up a pink crayon.
I cross off the last thing on Michael’s list.
I fold it back up, tuck it inside his pocket, bend to kiss him, and then whisper.
“Go in peace, Michael.
Your list is complete.”
. . . . .
I stand next to Michael’s coffin and prepare to speak.
I don’t know how to get through this, but I know I will somehow.
Monica and Jordan are in the front row, next to Mom, Dad, Scott, and Jen.
Ryan and the girls are behind.
I don’t recognize the faces in the back, but many have expressed their condolences and introduced themselves as Michael’s friends from the jet center. All the other faces I remember from Monica’s wedding. I remember that day, the first time I had seen Michael in over twenty years. It seems like a lifetime ago. I dab my eyes again, take a deep breath and begin.
“Michael came into my life when I was just a girl…and my life hasn’t been the same.
Things weren’t always easy, and at times, I thought we’d never last.
And…we didn’t.
“Many of you know that Michael and I divorced twenty years ago.
It was Michael who gave me a beautiful daughter.”
I look at Monica, tears heavy in her eyes.
Jordan holds her close, and on her lap sits Bindi.
“Michael left to find himself, and I know how cliché that sounds.
But I think it was meant for us.
Because once we found each other again, we learned how never to take love for granted and to hold on for dear life.”
I brace myself, trying to talk over the lump in my throat and continue.
“A few years ago, I lost my best friend, Tammy.
She was my anchor through all the bad Michael years.
And when she passed, Michael was there for me.
That’s the Michael I want to tell you about today.”
I glance down at the note in my hand—Michael’s bucket list.
“There are three things I know about Michael.
One, how much he loved me.
Two, that he wanted to be a grandfather.
And three, he died in peace. Michael would tell me about his regrets in life, but what he didn’t know was that he had outlived them. Even dying young, he left no regrets.”
Wiping my eyes, I look at the people sitting and see Tammy as Marilyn sitting next to Ryan.
She smiles and blows me a kiss, and I feel the strength to go on.
“Michael was the husband who would open my car door and hold my hand publicly.
He was the husband who surprised me with flowers for no reason and a hot bath waiting when I got home from work.
He loved to care for his granddaughter, and for the first year of her life, he raised her while we all worked.
He even planned her gender reveal party.”
I laugh and recall the day.
“We were all to meet at the park here in town.
Michael had tables set with food and cakes.
We were all in suspense and had no idea what his plan was.
All kinds of baby stuff were on the tables, which we thought would reveal if she was having a boy or a girl. Michael began talking when an officer came into the pavilion. He asked if anyone drove a white Honda Civic. Monica said it was hers. He told her that there had been an accident, that her car had been damaged, and she needed to fill out a police report. We followed her to her car when a parade of fire trucks and police cars surrounded the area. We thought a raid was going down when, over a loudspeaker, an officer said, ‘Monica and Jordan, you are having a girl.’ Every police officer and fireman came out with pink roses and began singing “My Little Girl.”
Not as good as Tim McGraw.”
The crowd laughs, and it’s the air I need.
“I think as we all get older, we realize that growing old together is the real fantasy, not the one we daydream about as young teens and adults.
As young girls, we think love is a first kiss, first sex, dates, dances, hearts, and flowers.
But it’s not.
Those are things we do because we don’t know what love is.
Love is the crying babies, the dirty diapers, sleepless nights, and having that one person hold you as you experience it together. Love is discovering what life is all about together—being someone’s anchor and light after a hard day. Love is watching someone slowly deteriorate away but still only seeing him as the hot guy who kissed you on his couch when you were seventeen. It’s seeing the storms and sunshine together. The hills you climb to see the horizon, knowing it wasn’t easy, but you did it together. Love is knowing you have moments to live, and you spend it building a snowman with your wife and granddaughter.”
With tears running down my cheeks, I fold Michael’s list, turn, and place it in his suit pocket.
“Love is having the best husband I could ever ask for.
Thank you, Michael.
I love you.”