The Empty Jar(17)

“I know,” he sighs. “It just…I’m just… It makes me mad as hell. Can’t we have this? Christ Almighty, can’t we just have this?”

I’m surprised by his sudden burst of anger. Nate hasn’t gotten angry even once since the diagnosis.

Maybe he’s due.

Still, my response is calm. I don’t need to add fuel to his fire. “I hope so. I’ll do everything I can to make it work out for us, babe.”

He visibly deflates. “That’s not what I meant.” Another sigh, another shake of his head. “I don’t want you to be dragging yourself around Italy, Greece, and Prague feeling like shit just because you think this is what I want. I can still give you the royal treatment at home, where you’re more comfortable. I just…I just wanted to give you this. Give you Europe.”

“I know. And I love you for it.”

At the mention of home, I feel a stab of wistfulness. I’d give anything to be in my own bed, surrounded by my own things. Everyone is like that when they’re sick. But I would never tell Nate that. This trip is as much for him as it is for me. Maybe even more so.

I didn’t need this. Not really. Soon, I’ll be gone, floating in a void on some other plane where memories have no place. But Nate will remain. He will benefit the most from a big stash of wonderful memories, things to detract from the awful ones that we both know are coming. He’ll need a million good things to overcome the bad because they are bound to be very bad.

So it is for Nate that I smile.

“As long as I’m with you, I’m happy. Let’s just lounge around for a while today and see how I feel later. Maybe go get some authentic Italian food for dinner. How’s that sound?”

The thought of greasy Italian food makes my stomach roil, but I hold my expression steady. For Nate. I’d walk through fire for him. Fighting through some nausea ought to be a walk in the park. And maybe, later, it will be. But right now… I’m miserable.

“Yeah. Sounds good,” he consents quietly. Although he agrees with his words, I can see the uncertainty and concern in the pucker of his brow and in the dullness of his normally-sparkling emerald eyes. It makes me worry, and not for the first time, about how hard this is going to be for him.

We’ve loved each other forever, it seems, but a wondrous love like ours leaves both of us open to heartbreak like no other. Losing a loved one is never easy. I know that from experience. But losing your soulmate? I can’t even wrap my head around that.

Although I would never have wished such pain on Nate, I have to wonder if it’s happening this way because he can take it, and I couldn’t. I can take the sickness, but I’m not sure if I could handle losing my husband. My Nate. If the roles were reversed, I’m not sure I could be so strong. I have no idea how I’d carry the load during it all, much less carry on afterward.

Afterward.

As I let my lids drift shut, I’m careful to keep my lips curved into a smile, even though I don’t feel it. “Afterward” is almost as scary as the next few months. Afterward holds more questions, questions like what do I do now and how do I go on. Afterward holds more time, time to think and relive and remember. Afterward holds pain that will take months, maybe years to overcome.

Afterward will be pure hell.

I quell my chaotic, troublesome thoughts as Nate climbs over my legs to stretch out behind me in bed. With a gentleness that he might use to handle a robin’s egg or a delicate flower, Nate pulls me into the curve of his body, wrapping himself around me like a shield. I know he wants to protect me from this—sickness, fear, despair, death—but he can’t, and I know that’s hard for him. So hard!

Nate has always been my hero, rushing to the rescue at the first sign of distress. His broad, broad shoulders have always been able to carry the heaviest of loads, but lately I’ve seen them sag when he thinks I’m not looking. My sickness is making my Nate sick. My illness is something he can’t fight and he can’t fix, and I see how that helplessness is making him suffer. I see it when his dazzling smile falters, and I see it when his sparkling eyes dim.

My husband can’t take my hurt away, and it’s eating him up on the inside. A disease of a different kind.

But no matter how deeply he’s suffering, he always takes care of me.

Just like he is now.

Because he’s still my hero. And he always will be.

“Sleep, baby. When you wake up, you’ll feel better.” He kisses my temple tenderly.

I know he injected as much conviction as he could into his words, but I know him too well. He’s probably already picturing the beginning of the end. And beyond.

Just like I am.

********

Nate



I’ve never been a particularly spiritual person. I guess I’m more ambivalent about it than anything else. Lena, on the other hand, has had some deep-seated bitterness that she’s never worked through, not since her father died all those years ago. That’s why I’m surprised when she wakes up just before noon, sits straight up in the bed, and looks back at me with laughter shining in those beautiful light brown eyes of hers.

“I might have to start believing in miracles,” she declares with a smile.

“And why is that?”

“I feel better. Like completely better. Thank you, God,” she mutters before rolling over to give me a smacking kiss then announcing that she’s headed to the shower.