MAID minus one - Sunday, November 18, 2018
I thought I might sleep in a little today, knowing I don’t have to relieve Tessie from Jack’s bedside, but I awake at 6:30 to the familiar and annoying smell of smoke in my bedroom. It’s been a bugaboo of mine through our seven years here but taking over control of the cigarettes has removed the element of surprise. I get out of bed thinking ruefully “well, this irritation will soon be over.” I descend to find Jack and Tomek smoking together in Jack’s office. Not chatting - too early for that - but looking comfortable. I wonder if knowing your dad will die tomorrow is any weirder than knowing your husband will die tomorrow.
“Morning!” I go in for a peck on the lips and a squeeze of Jack’s shoulders. He’s deep into Facebook. I glance at the screen. All Polish these days. Things are bad there politically - well, bad for Jack anyway. The right-wingers are in office taking away judicial powers and handing authority to the Catholic Church. All bad signs. Jack tells me he’s reposting anti-establishment things that, if he were in Poland, would mark him a revolutionary. He doesn’t give a shit. Facebook is his window on the world now, his own world having shrunk to these walls. It’s also his platform for communicating with his circle. On October 1, three weeks after he was told he had only 8-16 weeks to live, he changed his profile image to a photo of a tree growing off the edge of a cliff with an inspirational message: “Nature is always giving us examples demonstrating why we should never give up.” I haven’t asked him about this uncharacteristic moment of cheesiness. But I often wonder about this very public statement of resilience and whether it reflects a belief or just a strong hope that somehow he would pull through this. I wonder too what he thinks of that message now when he opens his FB page.
“Who’s up for some morning meds and a smoothie?” Rhetorical as I go back upstairs to get the meal going. As an afterthought I shout back: “and you, Tomek? You want breakfast?” With a healthy man here too, I should think about some proper food. Tomek says nothing but I come back down a few minutes later with a tray - mango/kiwi smoothie and three plates of scrambled eggs and toast. Maybe Jack will be able to down a bit.
“Jack, that foot care person is booked for today. You still want the appointment?” For years, Jack has been plagued with ingrown toenails. He once decided he wanted his toenails removed, they pained him so. I went with him to the appointment with the foot doctor and was amused when the doctor not only refused to remove his toenails but went on to commend Jack on his foot care, noting he could have a career as a pedicurist. Indeed, as a well man, Jack was obsessed with self-care, spending hours in front of a magnifying mirror removing blackheads and equal amounts of time on his feet. He was shocked at how casual I am about such things. In the last few weeks, although Jack has rebuffed all our other efforts to pamper him, he’s made an exception for foot rubs, enjoying several each day from me and Alexa when she’s here. We take off his socks - ones my mother has knit for him - and knead in Aveda Foot Relief, his favourite because it isn’t greasy. His toes have started to hurt as we’ve massaged them because of the nails digging in. He no longer has the energy to clip them himself. A week ago I found someone who would come to the house, someone who is accustomed to treating the unwell. It seems odd now to have this done given tomorrow he will die.
“Yes! I have never had a pedicure.”
“Great!” This is the most animated I’ve seen Jack in a couple of weeks and I’m happy I can let him anticipate this small pleasure. I was sure he’d want me to cancel.
A little later Tomek has gone out, leaving us alone for a bit. Jack is at his desk smoking and seems alert. I grab my laptop and open a document I’ve been working on these last few days between Sudokus and smoothie-making.
“Can I read you the death announcement I’ve written, Jack?” It’s important to me that he weigh in on this as the fact-checker. I’ve been grateful for all the stories he’s told me but since so much of his life predates me, I want to be sure I haven’t mischaracterized anything.
“Sure!” He’s remarkably enthusiastic about this. It’s a tricky question I’ve just asked. He’s always vetted updates I’ve emailed to our circle during his illness. I guess this is just the final one of those. He lurches back to bed and I get him set up with fresh Polish sparkling water and make my familiar crawl into the space beside him.
“Ok, ready?” I don’t need to tell him I’d like honest feedback. Jack has never shied from giving criticism when warranted, just another of the many differences that have both troubled our relationship and cemented it. His perfectionist's ear led to many conversations about a false note as we left concert halls. “Jack, how can you focus on that one moment when everything else was so beautiful?” I would ask, knowing at its root was a hypercritical mother who made Jack feel inadequate even up to our last visit to Poland two years ago.
I read the announcement as impassively as possible. This is good practice for the eulogy I’ll deliver at Thursday’s celebration of life, assuming tomorrow unfolds as planned. My voice breaks and I have to stop for a moment to compose myself at: “They were both profoundly grateful to have found each other and curse cancer for cutting short their time as a couple.” I regain composure and continue to the end.
“Perfect. Thank you.” Jack says. He smiles and takes my hand in his. We sit for a moment holding hands and saying nothing. It reminds me of the hours of Netflix we’ve watched in bed together, him idly running his strong fingers over the end of my fingernails, periodically crying out when he hit a jagged edge. I will miss that.
I can’t imagine what it feels like to hear your life reduced to a few paragraphs but I can tell it’s emotionally taxed him. He falls asleep. With my computer now open, I check email. A week or so ago, I put out a call for old photos from both his sisters and his kids. I said it would be something fun for Jack and me to look at together. But of course it was so I could include pre-Celia snaps in the photo montage I’m working on for Thursday. My Polish sister-in-law, Basia, has sent some today of Jack as a sweet teenager in his funky ‘60s clothing. Jack loves clothes and we’ve encouraged each other to express our sartorial styles, just another of the many things we’ve enjoyed together. I assume Jolanta has told Basia of Jack’s plans for tomorrow. Basia’s English is good but not great and as a result of language and the distance, we haven’t much of a relationship. Like the boys, she was here in October for Alexa’s wedding. She won’t be here tomorrow.
I look at my notes for Thursday. In addition to pulling together the pix for the slideshow, I’ve printed 400 copies of a photo of Jack and his beloved Bidi taken at our engagement shoot, just over two years ago. 400 is excessive I know - this will be a big celebration but not that big - but I will use them in time. Just a photo on a card - no name, no dates. Jack and I both appreciate the simple.
I’ve put our florist on standby to provide an arrangement of multicoloured roses at the funeral home. Jack has kept me in regular flowers during our relationship but it was tangerine roses that I first received on our second date. Roses will forever remind me of him. I’ve also ordered potted kolanchoes to decorate the room. At the end of the event, I will give them to the 20 or so people in my life who have really saved me through these last few months. Over the next years, those people will contact me when their plants flower, reminding us all that life goes on and memories are forever.
I know I’ll deliver a eulogy but I can’t write it yet. I just don’t have a clue what to say. This will come. I’ve got a few days and after tomorrow, more free time. I’ve asked Liz to MC the event. She’s comfortable behind the mic and will inject just the right amount of levity befitting a man who’s never missed a chance to crack a joke at the wrong time. I will wait to ask Stanley, Jolanta, and Alexa to speak. They may find it ghoulish to be asked while Jack’s still alive.
Finally music - he’s always wanted me to play “Clare de Lune” at his funeral but I’ve resigned myself to not having it performance-ready. I look at the piano in the corner and lament the fact I haven’t had the will to play these days as I so often did in this basement while Jack smoked in the adjacent room. Instead Jack’s asked his cousin’s kids’ to perform on Thursday. Their string quartet will be perfect and if they have Debussy in their repertoire, so much the better.
I will call the funeral home tomorrow to confirm all the details and Jack’s death plans. I have to assume capacity will hold.
___
Alexa interrupts my planning with a phone call. “I’ve picked Mikolaj and Bartek up from the airport and we’re on our way. Do you need anything?”
The question has many possible answers, among them: “Ten more years with the healthy version of Jack.” “To be able to undo every nasty word Jack and I have exchanged.” I settle on something she can actually do to help. “Can you stop at the liquor store? I feel we may need some supplies for tonight and tomorrow. You know what I like and get what you guys want. Take cash from your dad’s wallet when you get here.”
“Consider it done.” We all need to do something useful during this time of feeling quite useless.
Alexa, Mikolaj, and Bartek arrive. Nothing can prepare you for seeing this kind of decline and while Alexa has doubtless described the scene they are entering, there’s an awkwardness. It’s tough for the boys to maintain their usual playfulness with their dad. Tomek is back too and I leave all four of Jack’s kids in the basement while I fetch drinks from upstairs. I look out the kitchen window and see one of our travellers hunched over on the garden bench. I nod - yes, that bench has seen a lot of crying this month. Doubtless more to come.
A little later, the pedicurist comes and Jack moves from the bed to one of the yellow leather chairs he chose for this party room a few years ago. We all watch while he jokes around with the woman, trotting out for the umpteenth time his charming brand of near-flirting. As with most, she doesn’t quite know to make of him. Once during the procedure, he cries out in pain, the only time in our nine years together I have ever heard him do that. Remarkable.
The evening is full of merriment and Prosecco. Jack fades in and out of the conversation but he beams, enjoying being part of this gathering of his four kids one last time.
