Friday the 13th - A love Story

What do you do when love turns your mid-life upside down, and your partner's cancer flips it again? Well, I ask the oncologist. 

“What will Jack’s health be like in October. We thought we might get married around my 50th birthday and his 65th.” 

“I don’t know,” he replies, "but Jack feels good now. Why not now?” 

Everyone at the lung clinic knows we met when Jack fixed my fridge seven years ago. As a perennial singleton, I’d given up online dating which forces you to set criteria to narrow the field. I’d aimed for my match: someone well-educated, non-smoking, and tall who didn’t want children. A well-written profile caught my attention, too (I’m a bit of an English snob). I met men who bored me senseless. 

While I was giving up on love entirely, Jack, heavy smoking, short, Polish speaking, father of four and perennial romantic, was giving up on love with his second wife. 

Our differences were magnetic and our love, sudden and intense. Earlier this year, we’d decided to marry but instead of our planned elopement to New Zealand, we cross town daily for radiation and chemo. We’re together more than usual which only strengthens our bond. Jack still does appliance service calls though and I’m practising law when I’m not with him in the chemo daycare. It’s different from kids’ daycare except for our giggling as we play cards or chat with other patients. Jack’s an entertainer and cancer sure hasn’t changed that.  

Like too many patients, Jack has the DuMaurier pack in hand as we revolve out the hospital door. Jack does many things well, but nothing better than smoking - he’s cut back a bit, but he was at two packs/day when he was diagnosed four months ago. As he lights up, we look at each other and say, simultaneously — “OK let's do it - next Friday, City Hall.” 

Right now, I can’t imagine some future time when I will contemplate how I pushed my luck, marrying a lung cancer patient who can’t quit smoking on Friday the 13th but the date amuses us. 

Most wedding plans take months or years. We have four business days.  

Monday we go for the licence. Small hiccup: we’re missing a court document confirming Jack’s divorce. We detour to the court. Jack’s charm and my advocacy get us the paperwork fast-fast..  

Licence - check.  

Some in our circle will be dissatisfied they’re not invited so we choose witnesses strategically. Barb is my mentor and has an easy rapport with Jack. Stanley’s the patriarch of Jack’s Canadian family and a father figure since Jack immigrated 25 years ago. Barb, Stanley, and Stanley’s wife, Bridget, are all delighted and say yes.  

Witnesses - check. 

I’m not a traditional bride but I have two priorities. I order a bouquet from a florist friend, Sarah. Then I head to my favourite boutique, Titus and Louise, where Diane sets me up with an off white linen tunic. I already have a blue scarf to complement it.

“You getting a suit?” I ask Jack. I smile, knowing his closet is jammed.

“I’ll wear the charcoal one I just bought.” Jack can’t resist well-priced knockoffs but it pans out now. 

Flowers and outfits (new, old, and blue)  - check, check. 

Jack orders simple bands from a local jeweller. Thursday night we go to get them and they’re not what he selected. They promise to make it right but give us loaners. 

Rings (borrowed) - check. 

I reserve a table at “One”, the upscale restaurant at the Hazelton Hotel, one of Jack’s best clients. I pre-order champagne. 

Reception - check.

May 13, the wedding morning, is coolish but dry. My bouquet arrives - a stunner of white and yellow, befitting the month. Sarah has slipped a yellow rose boutonniere in for Jack. Simple. Tasteful.

“Jack, we’re going to be late.” We’re driving but despite my best efforts, we’re behind schedule, due to one last cigarette. 

“Don’t worry.” He grins, takes my hand firmly in his, and accelerates. Avoiding catastrophic lateness is in his genes.

Jack grinds his cigarette into the ashtray as we rush through City Hall’s teak doors. We’re in the chapel at 1:10, witnesses waiting. 

“Like my head?” Jack jokes about his chemo baldness. He tells the officiant the high points of our love story; his charms are not lost on her. It’s a standard ceremony and I tear up at the words “sickness and health” and “until death do us part”. We’re grateful for the intimacy of eloping in these circumstances. 

Forty-five minutes later, we’re all seated at One, bouquet in a vase on the table, champagne poured. Jack passes me his menu. “You decide.” He often asks me to find something he’ll like. Lack of confidence in English, I first thought. But now I know decisions are just hard for him. 

“They make tartare!” It’s risky to suggest it — it’s a Polish speciality and restaurant tartare rarely measures up to what he prepares himself. 

“I’ll take it!” We’re both enthused about everything today. 

We eat, drink, and laugh as the midday sun across our table bends to late afternoon. It’s One’s off hour so we’re alone, a band of five uninhibited aging funsters. And thankfully One scores a ten for its tartare.

Sated, we take a leisurely drive back home, late-day sun on our happy faces.

“What’s the occasion?” asks Zoran, the daycare owner, pointing at our formal garb when we fetch our beloved boxer.

Jack grabs my left hand with his and waves them both overhead, excited to share the news. Zoran is thrilled. Everyone’s rooting for us.  

“Look.” Enroute home, I spot families of geese. 

Jack pulls to the shoulder. 

“Chicks?” he asks. 

“Goslings.” By now, I know he’s checking his vocabulary. This is not a word that’s come up. 

We hold hands and watch silently.  We know these fledglings may outlive our marriage. 

But nothing mars this day.