This Is Not How It Ends(78)
On the days when Philip had doctor’s appointments, we’d drive to Miami together in the convertible, music blaring on the radio. We’d sing at the top of our lungs, our words dancing across an infinite blue sky. After the last appointment at Mount Sinai, with its alarming lab results, we were returning to the Keys. I could tell we were nearing the end; Philip’s tumor markers were rising exponentially. He held my hand on the seat beside him, and I watched him belt out the words to an Eric Clapton song. I was holding the wheel, and Philip, he was tapping on the dashboard, so alive, so willing to touch the universe closing in around him. Clapton sang about the woman by his side, about being glad she was there, and Philip crooned right along, singing the words to me in his terrible, out-of-tune voice. One second. That’s all it took to take my eyes off the road to look at him, to freeze the passage of time and remember him light and free.
In that glance, I would forever have proof of our love, proof of our existence. He grinned at me, and I knew that Philip was sent to me for reasons I might never understand. His laugh exploded through the air, and his uneven melody played in my ears. I already knew how this day would stay with me long after he was gone. After the final goodbyes, I would have the wind that tickled my hair, the love that poured from his lips, the beauty of the land propping us in its hand. And as we climbed through the marshes of Florida City and hit the final bridge by Gilbert’s, I exhaled, trusting, for once, that the world would be okay. I hadn’t even realized I was holding my breath.
Ben was right about needing help. Philip couldn’t get to the bathroom himself, and despite his weightless body, I couldn’t manage him alone. Feeding became a challenge as he spit food back at me, angry for his neediness, furious to have to rely upon others. I tried not to remember my mother in this ghostly state. The nurses had assured me I’d forget the sight of her fragile, shrunken body—her wild, darting eyes. Cancer ravaged bodies, but losing the self, autonomy and pride, was far more destructive. Of all the heartache we endured in those final days, nothing hurt worse than watching this vital man stripped of dignity. It was a cruel fate.
Philip, in his sober state, refused help. But when he saw the toll it was taking on me, he agreed to one nurse. “Female. Preferably good-looking.”
Judith was her name, and she was a beautiful brown-skinned woman with big eyes and braids that lined her back. One of Judith’s many gifts was taming what was left of Philip. People in her profession were trained for war. Philip’s emaciated body was controlled by an innate stubbornness, but he was no match for Judith and her iron fist. She got him to eat, she urged him to be kind, and they even learned to joke about the size of his penis. Sometimes I’d find them giggling, Judith adopting his British accent. He was teaching her the lingo. Bugger meant “jerk,” sod off was to “piss off,” throw a spanner in the works was to “screw up.” She entertained him, a momentary reprieve from his limitations.
Ben would faithfully arrive, relieving Judith from Philip’s occasional assault. He’d be armed with food for me and shakes for Philip. And when Philip was particularly belligerent, insisting, “I’ll piss on this floor. Just you watch!” Ben could coax him out of his spells. “You remember what I told you, mate . . . You take care of my girl . . . You promised.”
Later, I’d sidle up to Ben. “What’s he talking about?”
“I have no idea,” Ben would answer. “He’s delusional.”
“I hear you people talking about me,” Philip would snarl.
“It’s the voices again.” Ben would smile at his old friend, sadness lining his eyes.
“They’re not voices. They’re my friends.” Then he’d tell a joke: “What do you call the wife of a hippie? Mississippi.”
Somehow, his madness fortified us, a necessary levity that dissolved our shared pain.
Judith’s appearance in our lives was met with gratitude, though a single woman raising three kids deserved time off. That meant there were hours when I was actually alone with Philip, and there were moments I was really afraid. I was afraid he’d die in front of me, or he’d die when I left the room. I wanted to be there, and I wanted to be far away. Ben and I would sit at the table holding our coffee mugs, the threads of those conversations pitiful. How much Jell-O did he get down? When was the last time he emptied his bladder? Could we up the Dilaudid?
At Judith’s insistence, we maintained a schedule of dosages and defecation. The absence of one or the other told caregivers a story.
Thanksgiving arrived, and Sari’s mom and dad were taking Jimmy to Disney for the week. Ben and I were on the porch, the sun fleeing to the west. My nerves were shot, I hadn’t slept, and I had taken to drinking shakes—swallowing food was a growing problem. Makeup and hair fell low on the priority list, and I succumbed to swollen eyes and fingernails that cracked and split. Philip was asleep, and Ben was swinging on the hammock, his long body curved into the ropes.
For all intents and purposes, Ben was all I had. Philip would be gone soon, I was without parents or siblings, and I had forgotten to have children. The number from Nashville turned up on my screen a few more times. I plugged in his name, Paul, so he’d show up in my contacts. It wasn’t that I was intentionally ignoring my father, I just needed some time to work through my feelings. Giving him a name was a small step in making him real.