The whoopee pies stay in the freezer, our special treat waylaid as I frantically search for the ipad and sit the kids, both in the same kitchen chair, in front of its glowing screen. They oblige without complaint, barely noticing the frenetic pace at which I work to “secure” them. I need them to not move, to not need, while I call…
I FaceTime my husband from the bedroom upstairs, but there’s a ten second delay that feels like light years instead of miles between us. The doctor thinks what? Tell me what you said after “tomorrow”? We end the call and email instead.
I pace the small bedroom as I wait for his doctor to answer his cell phone. I hear muffled restaurant sounds in the background: dishes, conversation, chairs scraping. He is surprised I have his number–I’ve been careful to only use it in emergencies–but receives me graciously.
“Yeah, this isn’t good”, he says once fully briefed.
The players are all ready, we’ve run this play before. My mother tells me to call her after each person I talk to, an exhausting request. I text her instead. My mother in law asks if I’m okay. “I’m so tired,” I hear myself say. And for the first time tonight I realize the predominant response to my husband’s illness is exhaustion, my body immediately recognizing this emotion and how it felt before, the last time this very thing happened. The last time my husband was hospitalized. The last time, when he almost died.
I ask her how she’s doing. She doesn’t answer. We hang up and I promise her news.
I put the boys to bed and grab laundry. All laundry. Any laundry. Dirty clothes. Clean clothes. Nothing is safe. It will all be washed and folded and stowed before I go to sleep. I will make a pile of “if I go” clothes to throw in a suitcase. Let’s see, I think, it’s spring time in Santiago right now. I grab some sandals. Throw in some tank tops. Add a scarf, just in case. The pile is moderate; enough to get through a week without having to do wash. I have no idea what I’m preparing for.
Late into the night I wash, dry, fold, repeat. I immerse myself in television shows and redundant tasks. It feels nice, this forgetting. But then they end and I turn off the television and close up the house. I have ticked everything off my to-do list: doctors have been contacted, my husband’s medical history sent via email to the hospital in Chile, flights from DC to Santiago checked and cross-checked for departures and price, but mostly expediency. Now I wait. It suddenly feels so cold. So lonely.
I wonder, just for a second, if he will come home.
I turn on the heat before I go upstairs.
The warm water drips from my face, and I force myself to gaze into the mirror as a harsh, blunt thought takes over my brain: run away, it says. I take this line of thinking and run with it, farther than I should: could I leave? Where might I go? Would I take the kids? The scenarios appear in my head but don’t stick, draining away with the running water. I stare into my own eyes, not recognizing the woman looking back.
Love, there is so much love between us. But as the water runs down my face into the chipped enamel sink below, I wonder if I have the strength to surmount another journey into the unknown, into the depths of illness and cancer and set backs and questions without answers…again. I dry my face, holding my head in my hands for a moment, the soft fibers cushioning the contours of my cheeks, my nose–the face he knows so well. The face he loves. Of course I will stay, I remind myself.
I check the weather in Santiago as I peek in on the boys; they sleep soundly, the faint whisper of snores from their puffy, perfect little lips. I brush hair out of faces and cover them with blankets, daring to kiss those gorgeous, smooth cheeks. I turn on the small heater in their room. It is so cold.
I crawl into the cold sheets of my bed and lay back, closing my eyes. But I am spinning, spinning. I try to hold on to something, anything, but I have done this before and remember this sensation. There is nothing stable, nothing certain. I check facebook. Tell me a story, I demand to my small iphone screen, tell me something good. Yes, show me a video of a mink in a bathtub, I want to see that.
I finally close my eyes, remembering how my life went from static to spinning in a matter of moments: a special dinner out with my boys tonight, turning a Sunday without daddy into a “date”. The Mexican restaurant is warm and my youngest devours his platanos and tamales without protest.
“I have a special treat for you when we get home,” I smile at them, getting in close to see the twinkle in their eyes. They don’t disappoint: their eyes light up in tandem, their grins spread to cover the width of their little faces. We are happy. We are normal. We are safe. I check my phone as the dishes are cleared and the check is delivered.
Something’s wrong, he writes, I have a high fever, I’m going to the hospital. Can you call me?
That is how the spinning starts.
Sleep is still elusive but now I refuse to check the clock. The blankets are so warm, the pillow so soft, but I spin and spin. There’s a helicopter circling above the neighborhood, the frantic choppers whirring loudly. It disappears save a faint buzz.
I am almost asleep when it roars back into my ears, reminding me that it never really went away.