Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(71)

Afterward, I went to the bathroom and cried in a stall for a while, then splashed my face with cold water. I was turning from the sink when I almost ran into a girl—she couldn’t have been more than eight or nine—who was attempting to walk while reading a well-worn copy of Little House in the Big Woods. She looked up at me and scowled, but I smiled down at her anyway, because my mother had loved that book. I hadn’t adored it the way she did, but I never told her that, because I was happy just to sit with her and take turns reading aloud. In fact, there was little I now recalled about Little House, save the main character, Laura, and her family, and the occasional cameo from a bear or panther in their woods.

But as I returned to my gate, I realized there was something I could remember. At the very end of the book, Laura tells herself, This is now, and feels happy because the now could not be forgotten as it was happening. “Isn’t that wonderful?” my mother said to me after she finished reading it. Her arm was around me, and she squeezed me tight. “This is now, Libby Lou. And it’s all ours.”

It was a night like any other, except the flood of bad memories from the following years had not washed it away. And though it was no longer now, it was still ours.

People were crowding around the boarding area, jostling one another to speak with the gate agent or get in line. I was less than eager to sandwich myself between them and take another flight. Especially this flight, which would herald an unknown and undoubtedly difficult period.

Yet as I stood and began slowly wheeling my suitcase to the gate, I had a deep, restful feeling of relief—a feeling I had not had since long before the double dose of news that started it all. My conversation with my father had not been an epiphany so much as a reframing. Life is devastating, if only in its limited run; but it’s incredibly good, too. And in spite of my circumstances, I could not deny that I was ready for more.

“New York LaGuardia, now boarding zone one,” said a voice over the loudspeaker.

I took a deep breath and got on the plane.





EPILOGUE


Something Shiloh taught me is that to see the night sky clearly, you can’t overfocus; it’s the stars outside of your direct vision that come in brightest. So it goes with life’s triumphs and troubles. Though it would be several months after my departure that I could fully recognize this, my stay in Vieques gave me the distance to see my situation for what it was. And even with illness and separation, what it was, was incredibly good, simply by virtue of its existence.

I wasn’t eligible for a clinical trial after all, but as my new oncologist, Dr. Kapur, explained, this was because though the cancer had spread in my abdomen, it had not metastasized to other areas, rendering my case blessedly straightforward. I began a chemo cocktail that could be taken at home: pills that had me in the bathroom for hours while my stomach tried to secede from my body; and a topical cream that caused my skin to blister, making my Puerto Rican sunburns seem like spa treatments. But because the medication was administered in cycles, with recovery breaks, there were calm weeks when I wasn’t weak or nauseous, and I could almost forget that longevity and I were on tenuous terms.

Paul and Charlie had generously converted the garden floor of their brownstone into an apartment for me. Despite their hospitality, I found the city in winter to be overwhelming. Even a simple trip to the deli or post office required battling the elements, say nothing of the foot traffic. I preferred to stare out the high egress windows of my safe, warm nook, watching people stream up and down Eighty-Eighth Street at all hours of the day.

Yet, just as I had settled into a routine in Vieques, I began to adapt to New York, and as the cold gave way to temperate air and budding leaves, my days took on a comfortable rhythm. When I didn’t have a doctor’s appointment, I would read the paper, then walk in Central Park for an hour before heading home for lunch and a nap. Afternoons were often spent with Toby and Max. The three of us would make cookies and read books, or if I was up for it, go on outings (which required the twins to help me navigate the streets and subways like the urban experts they already were). A few times a week I spoke with Shiloh, sometimes for a few minutes, other times for hours on end. On occasion we discussed the possibility of him visiting me in New York. Yet with my health status up in the air and with him happily flying again, I was hesitant to make concrete plans.

I was lonely at times, but not alone. I would often be doing something benign—say, standing at the stove, watching the boys while I stirred a pot of chili or pushed chicken about in a pan—and find myself overcome with pure gratitude.

And there was much to be grateful for. The tumor, which was really a Pollock-esque splattering of cells beneath my navel, began to shrink. To celebrate, Paul—who had not said as much, but had clearly scaled back significantly at work since I’d moved in with him—took a day off and went to the zoo with me and the twins. It was chilly for late April, and as we walked back to the house, I tucked my head down to minimize the wind’s sting. As such, when I reached the brownstone, the first thing I saw were a pair of feet on the bottom stair. Actual feet! What kind of nutter wore sandals in such weather?

“Cutie,” said a voice, and when I realized that the voice belonged to the man I loved, I squealed, then kissed him like a crazy person.

“I know this was unexpected,” Shiloh said when I’d finished mauling him.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” I said. “Never leave me again.”