Have you ever tried to write, in one page, the story of your relationship with the most important person in your life? That's what I had to (try to) do for my memoir writing class. The assignment for last night was this: write a one-page brief on the subject of the memoir writing that you plan to do for this quarter. This is what I gave my instructors, and the other 21 students in the class. It did fit on one page; never mind that I had to reduce the margins to .9" and the font to 11pt Garamond, which is a fairly "short" font. If you have been reading here for a while, you will already know at least some parts of this story. If you're new here, take a deep breath.
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This will be the story of my 23-year relationship with my husband Paul. I met Paul at a college party. It was Valentine’s Day, 1981. It was Providence (Rhode Island). He was dancing with another woman. A week later, we were in love. Maybe I could tell you why I fell; one page would not be enough. Bullet points, in the order observed: lanky long-distance-cyclist’s body; gorgeous blue eyes; well-worn Stetson hat and cowboy boots; dry Yankee wit; flair for storytelling; massive intellect; gentle heart. In sum: just what I wanted.
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Four days after Thanksgiving, Paul was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. He was 21; I was 20. I had never dealt with serious illness, and, other than my grandfather, I had never lost someone I loved. Paul went home to Connecticut for treatment: radiation, which didn’t work, and then chemotherapy, which eventually did. He got massive infections, lost lots of weight, and almost died a couple of times. I spent weekends with him, often in surgical mask and gloves. The smell of latex still takes me back. Though a psychology major, I didn’t know to insist that we both get therapy. I believed the college health service psychiatrist who stated, after one visit, that I was doing well. That may have been true at the beginning, but after 2 years it was not. I was exhausted, depressed, and couldn’t see a “happy ending” for us. I left, Paul pulled me back, repeat; it was a horrible, drawn-out break-up.
For 12 years, we went our separate ways. I moved back to Texas to go to grad school. Paul moved to California to get a fresh start. We saw each other at friends’ weddings. Sometimes we talked; other times we didn’t. Once we kissed, then I ran scared. During that time, I had a couple of serious relationships; I compared them to Paul, and found them lacking. Paul decided he had to get over me, and got married. I left the men who didn’t measure up. Paul’s marriage didn’t work, and they split up.
One night in February, 1995, Paul called me. Did I ever think about us getting together again, he asked. When I went to visit him in May, he bought me a modem; we sent almost daily email after that. A year later, Paul and I drove my overloaded car from Texas to California. The first year, we settled into living together. (Paul had an episode of pericarditis. I joked that he was testing me. I did not leave.) The second year, we planned our wedding. (My mother helped. Paul did not leave.) We got married in a redwood grove; our friends still talk about our wedding. A year later, we moved to Seattle. We bought an old fixer-upper house. We started the paperwork to adopt a baby. In 2001, Paul walked a marathon for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. It had been 20 years since his cancer.
Five months later, Paul had congestive heart failure, a long-term side effect of chemo and radiation. At first, the CHF drugs knocked him out, but by last year, he was stable and feeling fairly good. In January, Paul was diagnosed with oral cancer in the base of his tongue. He had none of the risk factors, except prior radiation. He had twelve hours of surgery to remove the tumor and adjacent lymph nodes, reconstruct his tongue with tissue from his arm, and put a skin graft on his arm. The ten days in the hospital were horrible. Paul slept through as much of it as he could. I learned as much as I could. I learned a lot about nursing; good thing I’m not squeamish. I learned enough that medical professionals assume that I’m one of them. Sometimes I wish I were. When Paul came home, I nursed him until he was able to take care of himself. He is still learning to swallow again, and gets most of his food via a feeding tube. Paul’s surgeon is optimistic. The tumor margins were clear, the lymph nodes negative, the 6-month CT scan good. Now we wait, and hope, and figure out where we go from here.
We are fortunate in many ways. We have the unwavering, loving support of my parents and sister Melanie. Our relationship with Paul’s father and sister Vanessa is supportive, but more distant. (Sadly, they all live far away.) Paul has really good doctors. (I thank god for insurance; and hope there’s a special place in hell for medical billing departments.) We both have found good therapists. They told us that we weren’t doing so well, but we knew that, so the confirmation was oddly reassuring. They’re helping. We have good friends. We have three great cats. And we’re older. Some things are easier when you’re older. We know more, about ourselves, about life and illness and death. If I’d known in 1981 half of what I know now, parts of this story might have been different. But two things I knew then, I’ve known all along: I love Paul, and Paul loves me. And that’s just what I want.
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