It's Anniversary Season

 

In eleven days, it will be John’s and my 18^th wedding anniversary. We were so bad at remembering our anniversary that one time we only remembered because John’s aunt texted Happy Anniversary to me the night before. After recovering from my “oh shit” moment, and realizing we already had the menu planned for the week (taco salad was on the menu for the next night), I said to John, “Hey, how do taco salads sound for our anniversary dinner?” I saw the same “oh shit” look on his face I’d just tried to hide from him. He was a little late getting home from work the next evening because he’d stopped for a card and a pound of See’s Candies.

“Don’t worry, I forgot it, too,” I said to relieve him of the guilt I knew he was feeling. “Auntie Jan just texted me Happy Anniversary.” It wasn’t the first time we’d forgotten and wouldn’t be the last. John had it in his head it was the 16^th, not the 6^th, so he said, “I didn’t forget. I just remembered wrong.”

This year I won’t forget. It’ll be the first anniversary I’ll celebrate without him. February 7^th was the 20^th anniversary of our first date. I did forget that one this year. Most likely because I was mired in grief, living with my father, nursing a badly injured knee thanks to my dog. Twenty years! I never thought I’d sit and stay with anyone that long. Way to go, John!

 A minor anniversary happened on September 1^st. It was his six-month doomsday date, the expiration date imposed on him by his oncologist at Fred Hutch. On March 1, 2023, his oncologist said he had six months without treatment. John was done, fed up, and wanted no more intervention. So, OK, we’d heard six months before and he got seven years. But this time was different and we knew it.

He stood at the front door with DD’s leash in hand, ready to set off for their daily 4-mile walk. He said, with his famous shit-eating grin, “I’m supposed to be gone by now.” As was so often the case in John’s cancer journey, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

September 16^th it was one year since we met with Mr. Hill at his Gold Creek Camp for him to do a photo shoot with us. It was John’s idea, something I never thought of doing since we both hate having our picture taken. Sitting on stiff chairs at JC Penney wasn’t our style, so he suggested we ask my 80-something former 6^th grade teacher and elementary school principal who takes stunning photos. We knew it would mean so much more if he agreed to do it, and he did. I kept my fingers crossed that it would be one of John’s “good” days, as they were coming less and less often. By then he was fighting daily nausea and bouts of vomiting and his pain was increasing. But I also knew that unless he was in excruciating pain, he would still go, smile for the camera, and make it a good day for ME. Because that’s what he’d always done.

September is when he bought a Do Not Resuscitate medical alert bracelet. He said, “If I go toes up on my walk with DD, I don’t want them trying to bring me back.” Not knowing if they’d abide by a medical alert bracelet, he said, “I should carry a copy of my DNR order with me.”

“But how will they find it?”

“I have it on my phone.”

“Hey, how about you use the DNR order as the wallpaper on your lock screen?”

He ordered a bracelet that said, “DNR” and “DNR order on phone’s lockscreen.”

Most people couldn’t believe we had such frank and open discussions about such dark subjects. Ignoring it won’t make it go away was always my response. “But how can you be OK with this?” they’d say. Oh, I am SO not OK with any of this, but it’s his life, his death, and his decision and I support him 100%.   

October will be ripe with anniversaries. One year since the last time his children and grandchildren saw him alive. One year since we all sat on the living room floor going through his old military papers and awards and divvying them up. Liz laid claim to his dress uniform complete with all the appropriate bling. Tom grabbed his marksmanship awards and a few other military honors. Liz grabbed letters he’d saved from his first marriage when he was deployed. As we continued to look through boxes containing his life, I heard Liz laugh. She has a laugh that makes you happy just hearing it. She said, “I can NOT picture you and Mom snorting coke at a Phil Collins concert.” I knew he was in the military when he met her, so I said, “Hey! What were you doing snorting coke? Weren’t you worried about a drug test?’ With his signature shit-eating grin, he said, “They didn’t piss test back then.” Nearly 20 years together and I was still learning about him!

One year since my bestie, the woman who called him “Dad” saw him alive. One year since he entered hospice. One year since I watched him lose weight almost daily. He was getting dangerously close to MY weight. “That’s not gonna fly, buddy. I will NOT outweigh my husband.” I had to laugh, or I’d cry.

 We moved into November and I watched him increase the amount of pain meds he needed to remain relatively comfortable. I could only guess how much pain he was in because John’s pain tolerance was higher than any mortal man’s should be. I watched him pass kidney stones without flinching. I knew he could endure pain that would cripple most people. Between the neuropathy from his months of chemo treatments, the pelvic pain from the tumor in his bones, the gut pain from the unleashed bladder cancer, it was a wonder he was still standing.

Thanksgiving morning he stood at the kitchen counter and said, “I don’t want to do this to you on Thanksgiving.”

“But you’re going to, aren’t you?”

He said, “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.”

We stood in the kitchen hugging in silence until DD stepped between us like she always did. By this time, John had asked me to accompany them on their morning walks. He said it felt like his pelvic bone was literally about to break any minute and he was afraid if DD lunged or he stepped wrong, he’d be toast. Even in that condition, he was still walking 2-3 miles every morning. He walked three miles the day he died.

A couple of days later, wearing his signature shit-eating grin, he said he was going to the convenience store for Copenhagen. He said, “I’ll buy just a can or two, and then I’m going to quit for good.” That man could make me laugh at the worst times.

November 30^th will always be the date burned in my memory as the day my world changed. The date we sat together on his bed saying I love you and it’ll be OK. The date he said, “I hope when it’s your time, you have someone like you to be there for you.” The date he said, “I’m not scared because you’re with me.” The date “The Lover’s Waltz” played in the background as he slipped away.