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Though I fear it’s coming, I am still shocked when I hear the words from his oncologist’s mouth.
The best thing to do at this point is to make him comfortable, Harper.
I stare into Dr.Abdi’s face. I can’t make sense of her words, can’t understand what she’s trying to tell me. As I gaze into
her dark, sympathetic eyes, I want to scream that I don’t understand. Because, since his workshop, Ben has been doing better,
feeling better, able to dive into things he hasn’t since his initial diagnosis. I want to tell her that I’ve seen him cured, that
I know a miracle is waiting for us. It has to be. Instead, I simply explain that for the most part he’s been feeling great.
“I know, Harper, and that’s wonderful,” she says. “But the truth is, he still has terminal cancer, and when you’re in stage
four, like Ben, things can turn on a dime. It’s just spread too far at this point. I’m so sorry.”
She squeezes my shoulder and rushes off to another emergency. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry your husband is dying. I’m so sorry your world is about to upend. I’m so sorry miracles aren’t reserved for people like you. I’m so sorry you’re going to be a widow. Such ordinary words for what is happening.
I peek into the hospital room and shiver. I’ve never liked hospitals, but being here reminds me of how far we’ve come, how
much normalcy we have regained since he left this place. Now, as I look at him, weak and resting, I wonder if that was the
right decision. Could they have done more for him if we hadn’t walked away?
I call Wren and Jenna and ask them to bring me a bag from home. Ben has been asked to stay the night for monitoring, and he’s
barely been awake long enough to acknowledge where he is.
Inside the room, I watch the whir and beep of machines and then curl up on the window seat, studying the vibrant trees below.
I know immediately that things are going to be different this time when we leave the hospital; he’s going to need more full-time
care. I wonder if I should call hospice.
I drop my head into my hands and cry, softly enough so as not to rouse Ben. When I feel drained of tears, there’s a tiny knock
on the door, and Jenna and Wren stick their heads in.
“You two just can’t stay away from this place, huh?” Wren jokes. They stare at Ben, and I notice Jenna’s eyes cloud with emotion.
She sets the overnight bag by my feet, and Wren pushes in beside me, Jenna on my other side. They each place a hand on my
knee.
I don’t say anything. I can’t. It’s too hard. How could Ben be cured in one world and not in this one? This is the reality
that matters, so he has to survive. He must. Too overwhelmed to speak, I lean my head against Jenna’s shoulder and cry all
over again. It seems my tears are all I’ve got.
As they hold space for me, my brain buzzes with one awful refrain: The end is coming; the end is coming; the end is coming. And I know without a doubt that I’m not ready.
“What can we do for you?” Jenna finally asks.
I wipe my eyes, which feel almost swollen shut. My MO would be to say that there’s nothing to be done. This whole time I’ve
hoarded Ben mostly to myself, tucking all the emotions in like sheets on a bed. I’ve taken care of everything. But I can’t
do it anymore. It doesn’t help either of us. “I need to figure out what we need at home to make him comfortable. He’s just
been so much better lately...” My voice fades in disbelief as I stare at his slight frame in the hospital bed.
Just hours ago, he was ready for a hike. Now the doctors have once again confirmed there’s literally nothing else to be done.
Is this when a miracle will happen? Is this when everything changes?
“We’re here for whatever you need,” Wren says. “I know you have a lot on your plate with the show.”
I blink at her dumbly. “The show?” I scoff. “There’s not going to be a show, clearly.” I gesture to Ben. “Look at him, Wren. He is the most important thing in the world to me, not some ridiculous
solo show.”
Wren opens her mouth to speak, but Jenna silences her with a look. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, okay?
Let’s just focus on what we need to do next.”
I nod and feel the anger drain from my body in one lonely whoosh. “I need to call Ben’s mom. Excuse me.” I grab my phone and step outside the hospital room, tapping the phone against my blood-stained palm. I have so many people to call, but I am not in the headspace to talk to anyone. With shaking hands, I open the WhatsApp group we started for Ben with some of his nearest and dearest during his journey. We didn’t want to have to constantly keep people up to date via separate texts, so we figured this would be the easiest way. What started as an informational update chain quickly flooded into endless back-and-forth conversations, memes, and inspirational platitudes that would make both of us roll our eyes or laugh hysterically.
I tap out a quick update and then text his mom. She lives in Connecticut and hates to fly. Though I don’t want to alarm her,
I have no way of knowing how Ben will feel once he’s awake. I tell her not to panic and that I will let her know if she needs
to fly in after I talk to Ben. Suddenly feeling claustrophobic, I hurry outside, texting Wren and Jenna that I need some air
and to let me know if he wakes up.
Night has fallen, and the air is cool. I’m still in my hiking clothes, smeared with Ben’s blood. I can smell the tang of pennies
mixed with my own sweat. I collapse on a bench and stare at the sky, which, due to the bright hospital lights, is devoid of
stars.
I feel wrung out from the inside, unable to reclaim even an ounce of positive thinking. I think of Ben again in that other
life, how confident he seemed in his health and recovery.
“I’ve got all the time in the world.”
But it’s clear he doesn’t have all the time in the world, does he? Despite his positive attitude. Despite the workshop. Despite
what I witnessed in Brooklyn. Despite being the picture of health his whole life. Sometimes things just don’t work out. Suddenly
I open my mouth and let out a frustrated scream, startling a few passersby who jump and worriedly clutch their chests. I don’t
care. All the rage, grief, and uncertainty pour out of me in one loud, messy rush, and once I start, I fear I can’t stop.
It’s only when my phone buzzes and my throat is raw that I quiet down, glassy-eyed and almost comatose from exhaustion. It’s from Wren.
He’s awake.
Darting back inside, a spike of adrenaline clears my brain, like an ice bath. I burst into his room to find Ben sitting up,
a lopsided grin on his face.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Ben jokes as he adjusts with a tiny grimace.
“Thank God you’re awake.”
“What happened?” He swallows, and beneath a bit of that bravado, I sense fear lurking.
I glance at Wren. She looks at Jenna and motions toward the door. “We’re just going to go grab something to drink. Ben, want
a cocktail?”
“Yeah, whiskey, neat,” he jokes.
“Coming right up.” Wren winks at him, and once they are out of earshot, I let him know what the doctors said.
He nods, silent, and then I grip his hand, which is cold and pale. “Maybe it’s time to bring in an at-home nurse.”
Ben snatches his hand away. “No. I don’t want a nurse.”
“But Ben...” I’m not sure how to drive home the fact that his organs might stop working, that he could be in excruciating
pain, that he could eventually be bedridden.
“I just had a bad day,” he says. “That’s all.” I notice his fingers tremble as he raises one hand to vigorously rub his head.
TheIV line slithers up his forearm like a snake.
“Okay,” I say softly. “I texted your mom. Just to let her know you’re here.”
He nods, his jaw twitching. “When can I leave?”
“Tomorrow. They just want to keep an eye on your vitals tonight.”
Resting his head against the stiff pillow, he sighs. “I really hate it here, Harp.”
“I know.” I rest my hand on his again, knowing that if I could, I would trade places with him in a second. “We’ll go home
tomorrow.”
“And what if tomorrow never comes?” he asks at last, his eyes sliding lifelessly back to mine. He motions around him. “I don’t
want to die here.”
“No one’s dying here. Don’t say that.”
“Harper, come on.” His voice is quiet as he rubs his hand over the back of mine, such a familiar gesture that sends chills
through my body. “We both know it’s almost time.”
My heart cracks wide open, and I simply shake my head through my veil of tears. “You don’t know that. We just had a conversation
about you feeling better.”
“But I’m not better,” he says, motioning to the machines. “Clearly.” He sighs. “Even so, I don’t want to sleep here tonight.”
I sit silently for a moment, biting my tongue until I taste the sharp tang of blood. “Okay, let me see what I can do.” I pat
his knee and go find Dr.Abdi to see if we can discharge him tonight, but the moment I walk into the hall, I burst into a
fresh round of tears. Wren and Jenna are coming back with paper cups of water and rush over, fearing the worst. I cling to
them like literal lifelines.
All this time, Ben never even hinted once at giving up.
If he’s telling me he’s running out of time, then I have to believe him.