Six Months

"Hey, bug. Get my suitcase down, please."

"Okay."

We were heading to Maine for a week-long break after round three of chemo and, frankly, I needed a break. To leave the silent heartache of caregiving behind, to be a couple again. Spend time with Donna eating lobster, me oysters, flatbread pizza, and the ocean. Sit on Adirondack chairs in a garden feeling the warmth of the sun. The scent of flowers circling us in some archaic cleansing ritual.

I thought about the medicinal nature of all of that. A cool balm to apply to my bruised heart. Not just for me but for Donna. Even though I was the docent for her death, walking with her on this journey to the end of her time, she held her fears tightly. Her lips never spoke the vulgar language of death. We both shared those words inside us together and alone. Still, we would always find our way back to the past. Watching The Sons Of Anarchy. She would put a finger to her lips, shush, "Not a word out of you. This is my time with Jax."

"We're leaving next week, what's the rush?"

"Unlike you, I don't throw one pair of jeans, T-shirts, socks, and underwear in a garbage bag. I consider the location, the activities, and weather. After 29 years you'd kinda know."

I grabbed the ladder, positioned it in the closet. She was right. My view on escape was just that: escape, with little or no stuff to slow me down. For her, it was a blank slate to create upon. A canvas containing a self-portrait of the living. Besides the fact that nearly three years ago she was told she had six months to live. It makes sense to continue to be true to yourself. Donna always lived her life on her terms, her style. Death was just an interruption.

I grabbed the suitcase, placed it on the bed along with the smaller matched bag for toiletries and haircare items. Me? Shaving, toner, deodorant, aftershave moisturizer, and meds.

"You know you really don't need six sweaters, four sweatshirts, two jackets, five pairs of shoes, two pairs of sneakers and more for just a week. You know it's a week?"

"Shut up. Get out. We're driving, not flying. WTF are you now, TSA? Oh, and get a bag for Nina's dishes, food, and shampoo."

"What! It's a lovely little house with a garden, a short walk to a beach. Not a five-star spa."

I walked out shaking my head, smiling. Donna was humming and happy. That right there was worth it all. She had just completed her third treatment for the cancer. The first two regimens she did great. An MRI was scheduled for our return to see how effective this one was. It hung over me. Her? Never sure. She held all her fears and nightmares close to her.

I wondered if this was denial. When she first heard the diagnosis and six months to live, there was no denial. Tears flowed. Plans to head to OR for physician-assisted suicide were floated. Those plans were storm clouds moving across our future of till death do us part. In between the clouds light would filter down, a counterpoint to our combined fears.

It wasn't until a couple of weeks later during her first visit with Dr. B when she spoke her reality.

"Will I die in six months?"

"Well, let me review your chart and do an exam. Then I can better address that."

Donna hopped up onto the table. I sat, hands folded, on a plastic chair. Without thinking I crossed my fingers and silently recited an improvised prayer. I watched the stethoscope glide across her back like a skater with instructions, a deep breath. Hold it. Another. The tapping of fingers on her back beating out a one-two, one-two time. Fingers feeling the neck. Underarms. Open wide. Fingers tracing the neck.

I held my breath when X-ray and MRI images appeared on the screen. Dr. B did not nod or speak. He just looked with deliberate intent. When finished he rolled his chair over to the table. The wheels making its journey nearly soundless.

Dr. B touched her hand.

"Donna, six months may not be the reality today. This is stage IV cancer. There are three tumors in your lungs. They cannot be resected. There is a metastasized tumor in your brain. I believe the surgeon I will recommend can remove that. You are asymptomatic, which is great to see. So six months is not six months. Again, it is stage IV and we'll do everything to make it longer."

My shoulder blades fell from my ears. A deep breath entered me again. Donna looked at Dr. B, her face was relaxed. No smile. Just a break from "six months."

"Donna, come over to my desk."

She pulled the paper gown tightly around her, got to her feet. Walked over and sat in the chair next to Dr. B. I moved closer.

Dr. B picked up a pen. Drew a horizontal line on a sheet of paper. On the left he wrote Dr. B. On the right he wrote Donna.

"This is the line for our working together. Here on the left I will make all the clinical decisions. Of course with your understanding. On the right you will make all the decisions. I will abide by your choices, though if there is harm that may happen I will share my thoughts to keep you safe."

He handed the pen to Donna.

"Put a mark on the line where you want us to work together as a clinical team to care for you."

Donna picked up the pen. Checked the line in the middle. Perfectly centered because of course she was a graphic designer. That's what shared decision-making looks like.

We left the exam room with the name and number of the neurosurgeon and a horizon that was beyond six months for us. For her. It was at that very moment she handed me her cancer so I could care for her. It was not denial. It was not abandoning the reality. It was a sigh and whisper of time letting her know we got this. It was my understanding my days centered on conjuring a smile from her. It was our shared decision-making.

Waking early on our hit-the-road day, I made her lattes, my espresso, made sure the space was secure before we left. I filled her thermos with a latte. After all it was five to six hours on the road. The suitcases were staged by the door. Nina knew something was up and was pacing, ready to go out. Double-checked everything. Countdown was complete. We can achieve escape velocity from the crushing gravity of treatments, exams, scans, and insurance paperwork.

I put Nina into her seat harness. Her excitement was bubbling and spinning in place. The harness meant car, which meant nose out the window sniffing all the new places at 60 mph. We gathered the bags, locked the door, and pushed down on the elevator. Nina, Donna, the bags were all lined up on the curb.

I headed to the garage to get the car. Pulled up. Loaded the bags, all of them, into the trunk, not unlike manipulating a Rubik's Cube. We got in and headed for the open road. Donna, of course, selected the music. She was so happy. Stepping away from all of this and into the land of lobsters.

Put the blinker on. Pulled out from the curb. Headed to the light to make a left. To the next light to make a right. I scrunched my ass down, ready to be Mad Max driving The Pursuit Special, a 1973 Ford Falcon XB GT ripping down the highway.

My fantasy moment of being all butch was broken by, "Hey, pull over here."

"Huh? That McDonald's. What?"

"Don't be a dummy, bear. This is a road trip. We need to do road trip stuff. So stop, get me an Egg McMuffin." Easy enough, I could go back to my Mad Max cos-play in a few.

Pulled over in a NYC no-parking zone. What a rebel I become in the car. Beat a hasty path to the counter. Ordered. Got it. Truly fast food at that time of day. Saddled up to the car. Donna lowered the window, took the bag, looked in. Looked at me. Looked in again. Looked at me. Spun her finger in the air, pointed to the door.

"Napkins! I will not sink to your underworld. Not about to use my sleeve to wipe my mouth, you Philistine."

Got the napkins. Ran back. Hopped in. Handed them to her. Nina had her nose between the seats all the while moving her head in circles, wafting the fast-food aroma.

"Can we go now? And what's with this with fast food?" I pointed at the bite in her Egg McMuffin.

"Hey, what don't you get. Road trip dictates road food. How the hell can you get into the moment without making the moments true to the goals." She pointed out the windshield.

"Go now."

I pulled the car out and headed to the Hudson River Drive and pointed north for the five-hour drive. The radio was on, Nina was settled into the back seat thinking about grass, beach, ocean, and being with us 24/7. Donna laid her head back, allowing the sun to illuminate her in fits and starts of building shadows.

The car was not a space for chit-chat. Even before the cancer we'd sit. Listen. Lightly touch hands. She always commented since day one how our hands just fit together so perfectly. We'd speak about nothing. Speak about Nina. Lobster. The ocean. We were one in our thoughts. Words were redundant at times.

The six months. The treatments. The fear of death. The fear of being alone. Never uttered.

It was only after she died that friends spoke to me, sharing how they were asked by Donna to check on me. They shared how she was struggling, knowing her death would be the complete abandonment of me. I was being left on my own.

Before the cancer she'd ask me, "If I died would you get remarried?" I'd stroke my chin. Turn my eyes upward in concentration. "Mmmmm, well I think once is enough." Then I'd be punched in the shoulder. We'd both laugh.

Always somewhere in the middle of the drive there would be the music quiz. Always. It was like Donna suddenly needed to poke me in the ribs to remind me that I was uncool and hopeless.

A song would begin to play. Generally, it was from our misguided college years of the late 60s and early 70s. You know those songs. When the song came on she'd turn to me and ask,

"What group is that? What's the song?"

"Mmm okay, I know that group or singer or song."

After a few moments of silence:

"Jesus, are you brain dead? I married someone born under one of those yellow signs near schools, Slow Children."

I laughed. She laughed. We continued to drive, smiling. Darting in and out of sunlight and shadows.

We arrived at the house. It was at the end of a dirt road in a wooded area. The car was parked. Nina was let out to run in circles. We pulled the bags, walked up the stairs and settled in. Donna unpacked, putting things away in the dresser. We brought our own coffee and some food. Nina's bowls were placed. One was filled with water.

"Hey, I'm going to the farm stand to pick up some things. I'll be right back and we can go grab dinner."

"Okay, I'm hungry. I need my first lobster of the week."

I grabbed the car and headed to the nearby farmers market to pick up grub. Milk, bread, fruit, eggs, etc. Breakfast stuff. Lunch would be in town. We'd head to the cool Portland, Maine Whole Foods to stock up on more food for the house. But for now just breakfast stuff. I always did the grocery shopping. At times we'd do it together. Which was her selecting non-food items. This was marriage to me. My mind flashed back to our honeymoon in Greece 28 years ago. We were newly married. Now long married. After she passes I wondered, are we still married, adding to the years which was now 28?

Returned, unloaded, and loaded Donna and Nina into the car to head to our favorite lobster site. It was a short drive. Perched on a hill overlooking the ocean and Maine's rocky shoreline. Next to the restaurant, a takeout place with picnic tables for outdoor eating, was a white and red lighthouse. How postcard could one get. Not much more.

We needed to walk up stairs which was becoming harder for her. The chemo and radiation hollowed her out. I held her hand as we took one stair at a time. We walked to an empty table with Nina. She never complained about the erosion of her physical world.

"Your usual? Broiled stuffed lobster?" She smiled, nodded her head and said, "Yes of course. Maine is the land of lobsters."

Went to the window, put our order in. I was all into fried oysters so that was my go-to. Got our number and returned. A glass of wine for her, a beer for me. Sat down, held both her hands in mine. This moment here with her in the evening light, the scent of the ocean was ballast holding me in place. I held her tightly, keeping her in place. Here and now with me. Did she know I feared if I let her hands free she would be gone forever?

The crackling of a loudspeaker. "Number 44, Number 44." I held up the slip of paper. Waved it and jumped up.

Looking at Donna, "Dinner is served." More smiles. I got our tray, returned and placed a lobster the size of her head in front of her. The claws were big as a fist and jammed with her succulent joy. I sat down knowing what was next.

I picked up the nutcracker and a claw. Love is never not cracking lobster claws for her. I carefully wrapped the cracker around the claw. I looked at her.

"I will always prepare lobster for you. This year. Next year. Forever." I held the claw up. Pointed to the other one. She picked it up. We tapped them together in a toast.

"Lobster forever. To us. To 28 years of marriage." That hung in the salt-filled air. I wanted to believe in that moment I was caring for her. As I always did even before the six months. I wanted her to feel it. To see it. I feared that she did not see it. I was an imposter of caregiving. This would haunt me for a long time. It was the echo that hung in the air. She will die, I will live. Live with memories that have no transition.

I watched her, so ladylike, pick at pieces of the lobster. Dip it in the butter and slowly place it in her mouth. Again that smile rose and radiated across the table. I kept the promise to myself from that day in Dr. B's office to give her reasons to smile. I smiled too. The plastic bib with the cartoon lobster on it draped around her neck was so counterpoint to her style. That's all that I needed to experience. Our fears were helpless in this moment. There was more love than death.

We finished as the sun retreated. Headed back to the house. Settled in to some evening reading. Then bed and sleep in a cool late spring night.

That was the routine of the week. Add in a day of making our own lobsters on the deck. Heading to town to shop and walk. Flatbread pizza at the most crunchy place in town.

After dinner we'd go to a local ice cream stand manned by local teens being all bubbly and bright-eyed. I swear they had cows in the back. The ice cream was so wonderful, creamy, fresh, and just delish. Nina would always have a lick off of Donna's cone. All the while her tail keeping time.

The days we didn't head into town we would read. Donna would sit in the garden facing the sun. Or walk down the dirt road with Nina tied to her waist since Donna carried a parasol to protect her from the sun. Her walk was slow and measured. She was weaker.

During the day, before our naps, we'd gather Nina and walk to the cove. It was a 10-minute walk through the back yard. The beach was more stones and rocks, less sand. Still, it was a calm isolated area. Donna would sit on the rocks while Nina and I walked to the water. Nina is a Westie; they're not known for swimming. But somehow Nina just thought this a Maine thing. We watched her wade into the water. Slowly testing it.

"Bug, don't let her swim away," Donna would shout. "Be her lifeguard."

I turned back, "She's a dog and smart. Don't worry. Besides you know she hates to get wet." Like with many things I was wrong. Nina immediately headed for deeper water and began to doggie paddle.

"Don't let her out there." I heard from behind me. Too late, Nina paddled out, made a U-turn. Paddled back and turned to head out once more. Then back. Exited, shook the water off in rainbows of sunlight. Sprinted to the sandy part of the beach and rolled and rolled.

Donna and I were laughing so hard. Who the fuck knew this city dog who gets meticulously groomed every two months had the heart of a farm dog. She was a mess and needed to be hosed off when we got back to the house.

The week ended. We packed and loaded the car. The drive back was the same. We never allowed ourselves to share our feelings or fears. We belonged to each other so completely that we knew without words all that was there in each other and together. I wondered if she thought about the next scans. What they would foretell. I was still the docent for her death.

Home. Unpack. Settle in. It was good to be in our own bed. The next day Donna got a call from Dr. B who asked her to come in the next day. Good news is given over the phone. In person, well, you know. We knew. Tried to watch some TV to avoid looking forward.

Dr. B, as always, came to the crowded waiting room. Walked up to Donna, asked how she was. How was Maine. Then brought us to his exam room.

"Donna, the scans show that the most recent treatment did not have the effect we'd hoped. The tumors have grown a little. Which is good. Slow is good. There may not be another treatment regimen but I will continue to look. More important is we can see fluid around your lungs in the pleural space. We need to drain it so your lungs can function as normal. It's called a thoracentesis. It has to be done in the hospital. It is easy with little discomfort. I have scheduled a room for you for tomorrow."

I reached for her hand and she pulled away. Not in anger. It was her needing to manage what this meant on her terms. I don't remember much else. We left, got into a cab. Headed home. Donna pulled out a small bag, put some clothes in since Dr. B said she would be staying overnight.

We had a quiet dinner. Small talk. I tried to be positive. She was not listening. That night sleep was useless. I got up, made her a latte. Walked Nina. We showered, dressed. Picked up her bag. She was so very weak I had to hold her tightly to get to the corner for a cab.

"One day arm and armWe left home and closed the doorYou never returned"

We got to the hospital. It was the back entrance near the loading dock. I had to carry her in my arms. She needed to use the bathroom. There was one there, I opened the door. Helped her lower her sweatpants. Stayed with her. Cleaned her. Someone brought a wheelchair. We went to the 9th floor, checked in.

Donna got to her room, put on a gown, settled into the bed. The room had a window overlooking the park. Dr. B came by, explained the procedure. A surgical resident with an attending observing was going to insert a small catheter into her pleural cavity to drain the fluid. An ultrasound was there to guide the catheter. She didn't respond to questions from the staff.

The site was cleaned. An injection to numb the area was administered. I held her hands. She closed her eyes. Gripped my hands as they made an incision to negotiate the catheter into place. The resident and the attending were talking. It didn't matter, all I heard was silence. Lost in witnessing this foretelling. Another trauma to keep her alive.

It didn't work. They tried the next day. It didn't work.

That afternoon Dr. B came to her room with a few others in white coats. He arranged the chairs in the room, assigned seats for everyone. Sat next to Donna.

"I think we need to consider palliative care since there are no treatment options remaining."

I watched Donna's face. There was nothing there. She wasn't there. He introduced the hospice team. The head of the unit spoke about how palliative care would give Donna comfort and time. Donna never looked at the physician.

Home hospice was recommended. An order was placed for the bed, tray table, bedpan, and medications. Two days later I received everything. It was set up for me. The living room now a home hospice. Would never be a living room ever again. I went to see Donna; she was still in the hospital. I was pulled aside by her primary care physician. Both he and Dr. B thought it would be better for me and her for her to enter the hospice unit. It was. Hospice saved my life. I could move from caregiving to being me with her.

Two orderlies placed her on a gurney to move her to the hospice unit. All I remember was the echoing sound of the wheels. Thwack thwack thwack. We entered the hospice unit. I looked into the rooms as we passed. Patients gaunt, asleep, agitated, afraid were in beds. Family members sat near the beds holding a hand. Eyes cast down.

Hospice care and support made all the difference in her final days. I read to her. Sat with her. Brought Nina to lay in her bed. Donna passed 21 days later. The stories about a dying loved one being surrounded by family is a story. Not mine. I missed her death thanks to a cab driver making a wrong turn. All these years later I believe she knew it was her time. She loved me so much she wanted to spare me that trauma. Sigh. A small comfort for a guilt that permeates my soul.

I left the hospice and began to call friends and family to share that Donna died. A close friend said, "I don't know much about grief. But I do know that if you bury it, not to address it outright will haunt you forever."

Over time I took that to heart and made my grief my story. A narrative of love and loss. I posted, podcasted, began a memoir, joined online grief groups, and more. I told Donna's story, my story, our story. At times I felt like a one-trick pony. I didn't stop. Years later I wondered, did I stand on her death to find me?

In October of the following year, I made plans to head back to our Maine escape. To relive our joys. Lobster. The ocean. The garden. To walk where we walked. I also was planning to bring her ashes so I could place her where she found her happiness two months before her death.

It was strange to pack. To pack and drive alone. I had her ashes. Of course Nina was with me. Since Donna never came home again Nina was not her usual self. Even in the car with the window open, sniffing the rushing air.

We arrived. The house was the same. The garden not in bloom but green and inviting. Nina was happy to find grass. She ran around the yard. Once in the house she went room to room looking for Donna. As I did. She was there, I knew it. I guess I felt her. As I have every day since she passed. Her ashes were there now. So she was there.

I took the bags into the bedroom. Began to unpack. Closed the door to hang a coat. There facing me, in fact startling me, was her scarf. When we got home last year she was annoyed that it was not packed on the return trip. Her annoyance about that was eclipsed by reality.

I took the scarf off the hook. Held it in my hands. Brought it to my face to see if I could inhale her again. Falling back on the bed I looked at the ceiling holding it. A calm solitude fell over me. My self-imposed year-long isolation was put aside. I was with Donna again. Here with her. Everything was known, nothing needed to be unwrapped with words. Death is a passing. Grief and love open doors to new discoveries within me.

Nina and I spent the week walking around the area. Went to have lobster just for Donna. It was not the same but I forced myself to make it the same as best as I could. At the end of the week, I finally got the strength to take her ashes to the cove. It was time to let her feel the pureness of the ocean. In a place she loved.

Put Nina on her lead. Wrapped Donna's scarf around my neck. I wanted to do this with her. Lifted the box of ashes and headed to the cove. Nina was bouncing a bit. She knew the water was right there. We negotiated our way through the path. Crossed a dirt road and walked onto the beach.

I let Nina off lead. She bolted to the water. Stopped. Sniffed. Pawed the edges. Then waded in. I placed the box down, opened it, took the ashes out. It was a plastic bag. How humiliating for Donna. I should have placed them in a silk bag for her. Another failure. Here she was, grey. Donna was never without color. Or style. A plastic bag of grey. I touched the scarf with its muted colors wanting to pass it to the ashes. I remembered her here, dressed brightly, brushing away the present.

Since I'm old as dirt I carefully balance-beamed myself along some rocks to a small container of ocean where the tide rose and fell. I watched its rhythmic life. Down and out. A beating heart of water with bubbles of foam that rose and fell. I paused. Held my breath. Could I release Donna back to a place of peace? It was a double-pan balance scale, love on one side, death on the other. The weight of death in one pan was raising as the weight of memories weighed heavily on me.

Reaching into the bag, I cupped a bit of Donna. What was I holding? Her hand again? Her heart? Caressing her back? What was in my hand? It was memories, moments, love, us. It was lobster claw toasts. Sunday dinners. Saturday night movies. All of that and none of that. It was so much more than the single word love.

I slowly lowered my hand of grey ashes into the eddy. The cold water washed over my palm and pulled Donna into the water. It swirled as the tide came. The ashes rose and fell over my hand. As the tide pulled back, taking her to sea. The grey ash was a monochromatic tie-dyed T-shirt. Back in came the tide raising the swirls and then pulling them out. My wet fingers touched the scarf. I held another handful of grey and slowly let it fall in a cascade of her into the incoming tide. Watching the swirling of the ashes. The ocean gently brushing the rocks. The sea foam. I gasped. She was there. Whole again.

I stopped. Leaving her here behind was no longer valid. This was not a great unwinding of my grief. Nor a closure. It was a moment that needed to happen. Just one moment to have this time of honesty and sanity. I was not releasing her. I was offering her another smile.

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