Breathe (A Love Short Story)

Author’s preamble: It’s been a rough week for yours truly.  In addition to injuring and re-injuring a tendon in my right lower leg, I got a bad case of food poisoning on Friday.  Couple that with the fact that my “Open Letter to the Bloggess” post hasn’t crystallized like I’d like so far and that work is still not quite done.  In lieu of that, however, I present to you a short-story I came up with during food-poison fever dreams that I later fit together with words into something more concrete.

Before you comment on it, a few words.

First and foremost, it’s tempting to claim this is a Mary Sue (a Marty Stu?) for me but it really isn’t.  I definitely used myself as the predominant character here, but if I was going to expand this story and make it larger than it is, I can’t honestly say I’d keep it that way. I think the big reason I used many of my personal details in writing and fleshing it out is because I knew them already and could fit them into place easily.  If this were intended as something more serious, I know, for example, that the tattoo reference would change and “she” would be more fleshed out.  I don’t intend to develop it further at this time, though, and I’m fine with leaving in place a lot of the stuff I included because the themes work like I want them to.

Even though it’s pretty simple, I hope you enjoy this work.  If you like it, I’ll post more creative writing here in the future.

PS – the work below is something I consider under the Creative Commons domain – able to be repost and used in works that are not intended to generate profit and with proper attribution .  Please respect that.

Breathe (A Love Short Story) 

Food poisoning sucks. I’m 99% sure it was the tacos, but 100% sure I don’t care right now. I’m really fucking miserable.

I wanted to puke the entire bus ride home but held it in because I didn’t want to puke on the bus. ‘course, now I’m going to be miserable for the next 12+ hours while my body figures out how to handle whatever disagreed with it.

But, if I’m going to be miserable, maybe I can at least persuade someone to come be miserable with me. I fumble for my cell and dial my girlfriend. “Hey, what’s up?” she answers.

“I’m sick. Food poisoning.” My voice is probably saying everything the words aren’t. “Mind keeping me company?”

“Ummm, sure.” I’m pretty sure it’s not hesitation but her mind already churning over how to fulfill the request that prompted the ‘umm’. ”I just finished dinner with the girls, so I’m on the road. I’ll swing in your direction. Want me to bring anything?”

“Not really thinking about more food right now.” Mentioning food makes me more nauseous actually. “I just don’t want to suffer alone.”

“Okay. I’ll see you shortly.”

I bundle myself up in blankets on the couch and wait, occasionally sipping from the mug of water next to me. In about 20 minutes, I hear the sound of heels in the stairwell. I struggle upright, hobble to the door, and open it before she gets there. Gotta prove that, even when hobbled by illness, I’m indestructable.

“Hey,” she smiles when she sees me. “Nice outfit. Wear that to the office?”

“Blankets are the height of fashion, shut up.” I say, maneuvering deftly through Stumbleville and crashing back onto the couch.

“I brought you some soup,” she says, setting a bag labeled Panera on the end table. I’ll need to put it in the fridge when I randomly wake up at 3 AM and remember it’s there. “How you feeling?”

“Vomitastic.” I peer out from my blanket huddle. She’s dressed to the nines, which means her work had an important meeting today. “See, if you really wanted to make a good impression, you’d have worn blankets today.”

“Yeah,” she winces. “Got another one tomorrow, but I have a spare outfit in my bag.”

And she stopped to look after my miserable ass instead of getting a good night’s sleep? “Shit, I’m sorry.” She waves it off. “Thanks, for coming babe.”

There’s humility and gratitude there and I think that’s what prompts her smile. “I’ll make some tea for us. You make some room in there for me, okay?”

By the time the tea’s done, room in the blankets is made and she’s kicked off her heels. I make some futile attempts at enjoying the tea, but mostly try to burrow further beneath the blankets and shut off all light and sound from whatever she’s watching on tv. I focus on inhaling and not moving. Her scent thankfully cuts through the nausea, and at some point I fall asleep breathing her in.

######

It’s almost 3 AM and my body nudges me awake with impulses like sirens. I gently unwrap myself from both lady – she never moved from the couch – and blankets and make my way to the bathroom. Several minutes later, I emerge, feeling better but completely drained. Food poisoning is rough on a body, as I’m being reminded.

I stumble back through the darkness to the living room couch, find the bag with the soup and my mug still 2/3 full of carefully made tea. I save both in the fridge for tomorrow, when I’ll need something for breakfast and don’t feel like making anything. While I’m up, I set some quality coffee to brew at 6:45 and set aside some fruit and hot cereal so she can make a decent, quick breakfast.

Comfortable as the couch is, it’s not as good as my bed. I go to my room and tug open the sheets, then go back to the couch and quietly pick her up, blankets and all. Being moved tugs gently at her consciousness. “Whas’up hon?”

“You’re getting a bed.”

“Oh.” It’s reasonable enough to make sense to anyone barely awake. I set her down and move to draw the covers over her when she grabs my arm. “You stay. You getta bed too.”

Well, there goes my intention of sneaking back to the couch so my angel of mercy can get a decent night’s rest. “Okay.”

I climb in and pull the covers over us, wrapping my arms around her beneath the sheets. She turns into the embrace and I quietly kiss her forehead. “Sleep you.”

I can’t see anything in the dark, but I know she’s turned her head to look at me. “You feel better?”

“Yes. While I was up I set out some stuff you can have for breakfast. Fruit in the fridge, cream of wheat on the counter. Coffee in the brewer, you can mix it with milk or whatever.”

There’s a quiet moment before she responds, and when she does it’s muted, but coherent. “Thanks hon.”

“Of course, babe. I love you. Now get some sleep.”

There’s another moment while she processes my response. “I love you too.”

The two of us lie there, hovering somewhere at the borders of reality and dreams. I think we’ve each made a decision in that middle realm that bridges both fantasy and normal. Certainly we’ve been together long enough that it’s probably time.

The next day, I’m up at 10. She’s already gone when I wake but a note with ‘Love you’, a small drawing of Princess Zelda, and her name is on the counter next to her breakfast dishes. I take the note and set it beside my computer so I can see it while I Google local engagement ring sellers.

######

The wedding band I chose was a diamond surrounded by inlaid emeralds with more emphasis on the emeralds than the diamond. I arranged to propose while we were both on vacation – it was a week-long getaway in Hawaii where we did everything you could do. I proposed midway through and she accepted enthusiastically. We agreed not to tell anyone until we were back from vacation, but our Tweets and Facebook updates contained enough ‘big secret’ talk that people probably guessed. At our wedding 6 months later, she was my raven-haired goddess. My friends all told me I was a lucky man but they truly had no idea.

It’s been 25 years since then, though, and a lot’s changed. We live in the same house, for starters, and have three kids – two boys and a girl. We’ve also had a lot more fights, but our personalities mesh such that they always end with one of us doing something silly and breaking the anger. I’ll never forget the time we were fighting – I forget about what, but she could tell you – and this exchange happened.

Her: “No! Stop saying that dumb shit or I will… I’ll bite you!”

Me: “Like a T-rex?”

Her: “Yes, like a T-rex! (shifts voice and mimics tiny T-rex arms) With the big head and the little arms.”

It was such an unexpected comeback, I literally fell off the kitchen stool laughing. Also, she won that one.

We’re doing well enough, cash-wise. I made enough money that I turned from managing and process improvement to writing and activism long ago. She stayed where she was long enough to break into the very bottom of upper management and bank some cash and then she left. Now, she runs her own finance business and has made a major name for herself. People are calling her the next Melinda Gates or Sheryl Sandberg. Some have even compared her to Hillary Clinton, which reminds me of an incident I saw in her office once.

I was picking her up for lunch when a young company officer she’d been having trouble with decided to mouth off. From what I gathered, he’d put forth an opinion in a meeting she hadn’t immediately taken to. In response, he called her “a stone cold Hillary Clinton” within earshot.

“First off,” she began, calmly turning to address him “Being compared to Hillary Clinton is a compliment to me, so thank you. Clearly, however, you meant it as an insult and I expect better from my management staff. Now, you’ve disagreed with a lot of things we do around here and that’s fine. I don’t want a crew of yes-managers. But we all need to respect each other’s roles and skills. I will not tolerate disrespect on any level.”

While he stood there stunned, she checked her watch. “It’s Wednesday. You’re going to take Thursday and Friday off with pay. I want you to really think hard about whether you want to be here, because when you come in Monday we’re going to have a serious discussion about your future with my organization.”

Her poise, her grace, her command, her self-discipline, even her generosity; in that one moment she showed so much about her that was amazing I was completely smitten. The moment we were alone in the elevator, I told her she was amazing and kissed her until the chime rang for the lobby floor. She grinned at me like an idiot and told me it’d felt good to say that. I spent all of lunch finding ways to make her laugh, just because.

It’s a shame that neither of us are in a humorous mood tonight as we lay next to each other in bed. One of the things that changed in that 25 year span is that I now have cancer.

We’re covered, health-plan-wise, money-wise, time-wise . I’ve read all the brochures and the pamphlets on lymphoma. I understand the treatment. I even did the ritual head-shaving that seems to come with the illness. But…

“Your leg surgery’s Thursday,” she reminds me. “I’ll take you in, so make sure you’ve got everything ready the night before.”

It’s a reminder I don’t need, but I know she means well. “I will.”

My lymphoma isn’t bad – it’s one of the curable kinds – but it’s still cancer and cancer treatment is still a brutal experience. The surgery, the radiation, the chemo; the fight against cancer can be a pyrrhic victory at best. If I don’t respond well to the treatment…

“You okay, Guybrush?”

I don’t really react to my Elaine Marley’s question physically. “I dunno. I mean, the treatment? It’ll wreck me no matter what. Chemo and radio – I feel like I want cockroach DNA injections to get through this. It… I can’t..” What I can’t do is finish the sentence.

There’s a long pause before I realize she’s sobbing quietly. “Babe?”

“I can’t lose you,” she sniffles.

I break from the mental fog I’m in. Her words make me realize that in my fear, I’ve made it sound like this disease and its treatment are so terrifying, I don’t even want to try to live. That I’d rather just give up and die than fight to stay with her.

They’ve also told me that the strongest woman I will ever know has a weakness, and that weakness is me.

“And I could never leave you,” I say, and the way I say it tells her she is my weakness too. “But I’m afraid.”

There, I’ve said it. “I’m afraid of this. I don’t know if I can recover. I don’t know if I can make it.”

Her sob turns into a laugh mid-utterance. She gets it now – I will fight, because when you’re afraid you struggle forward not back. That this fight may consume me terrifies me like nothing I have ever encountered before, but it is only fear and fear is something she understands.

She holds me tightly, one hand tracing over the contours of the scorpion tattoo on my right bicep. To me, it’s a symbol; a life truly lived must be lived with no fear. She kisses it because she knows this. “I can give you a part-time job when you’re well enough.”

“Nepotism! The best cancer recovery!” I say in my teasing voice.

She laughs again. “I’m serious. We’ll need an experienced consultant on some things when Sarah goes out on maternity and I’ll get to see you everyday. Plus, there isn’t a person there who isn’t a ridiculous fan of yours.”

This last makes me scoff. “I’m sure some of them think I’m not worth the paper I’m printed on.”

“Nope, they all do,” she insists. “It’s part of the hiring criteria.”

“Oh, well then. Who am I to argue?” Even as I say this, I’m aware that our little exchange has completely taken the sting out of my terror. I would always have fought to keep our future together, but I have no choice now. I’ll win, and that’s the end of it. “I love you, Plunder Bunny.”

“I love you too, Mighty Pirate. That reminds me – how was Paris?”

I was in France for the first time recently on a mix of business and pleasure, partly involving the transfer of money from rich to poor. My friend, Liz, was living there at the time and I persuaded her to help me with some French translation. “You’d love it,” I say. “And you’d love meeting Liz too. When I recover, we’re vacationing there.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” she says. We’ve made a decision that my battle will be won by both of us, no matter what.

I can’t help thinking that tonight she smells absolutely wonderful. There’s no sex, but we each go to sleep breathing the other in and that’s euphoric enough.

######

 For several months after surgery, chemo, and recovery I could barely make it through the day. There’s no explaining how draining it is; my favorite made-up word, exhaustired, does not even come close. But I did make it through. Initially, the kids visited frequently, but as it became clear that treatment was working and that I would make it through, they went back to their own lives.

I was tenacious and aggressive with physical therapy and recovery was quick, all things considered. The month after remission was announced, I began physical training, trying to restore what I’d lost during the fight. I did take up part-time work at her firm (and they did love having me there). She had lunch with me every day, and made time to look in on me whenever she could. I spent at least five minutes out of every working hour writing things I knew she would love and innovating creative ways to leave them for her.

Paris was wonderful and I took her two years after my first treatment. Unfortunately, the cancer and recovery damaged my taste senses such that wine was never the same. It was a small price to pay for being able to kiss her atop the Eiffel Tower, though. It tasted better than any wine.

The kids grew up and out long ago, and we are grandparents now. In the 25 years since the last night we spent together, the boys have married and each have daughters and my baby girl has a child of each gender. One of my sons has a son himself; the boy is homosexual, but we make sure he knows he is loved regardless of who he loves.

My wife and I live in the same retirement home. We are still spry for being in our 80s. It’s something I’m very grateful for; few men live quite as long as I do, especially cancer survivors. We credit healthy living and lifelong exercise for our continued mobility.

Our age has caught up with us though. Recently, my wife broke her hip in two places – she fell when I wasn’t around to catch her. Her recovery is limited and she’ll never walk the same again.

My body is mostly okay. My memory is terrible, though my mind is still fairly sharp. I’ve also recently come down with a serious infection. Originally, it remained in the sinuses, but it moved and now inhabits my lungs. Breathing is laborious; with each breath I’m like a swimmer clearing a mouthful of water inhaled by accident during the rise to the surface. I look at my wife surreptitiously some days and notice her face is as gray as her hair. Oft-times, the color that floods her cheeks when she sees my attention is directed her way seems like a strength she pulls from some deep reservoir just to keep going so that I don’t lose her.

Though it seems a curse, I long ago accepted that death comes to us all. Now, though, I feel like life is the affliction and that each of us suffers for a few precious moments more with the other.

The two of us still sleep in the same bed, though it is large enough that we sleep separately. Tonight, I help her into bed and then get in my side. She is up for a bit working on a pair of booties she was knitting – one of the grandchildren is expecting her first – but she soon finishes. The books I loved to read and articles I loved write can now no longer distract me. After years being a dynamo of energy, my wife is clearly tired.

“I love you,” is how I begin it.

“I love you too.” Her smile is radiant oh-so-briefly. “More than all the prune juice in the world.”

 I laugh, which becomes a gurgling cough. “I’m so tired, babe.”

 There’s a period of quiet. “Me too.”

 And like that, we’ve both made a decision. “It was wonderful,” I say about all of it. “I treasured everything. We did such good, and sharing the good with you made it all worthwhile.”

 She leans over and kisses my snow-bearded cheek between tears. “You always found the ways to touch me,” she whispers. “Everything you said, you wrote – I loved it all. Whenever I needed direction, you were always there. You inspired me. You improved my processes.”

 The last is said with a laugh, and it makes me laugh but without the coughing this time. It’s time for me to say what’s become apparent through our 50+ years together. “I always wanted to be strong,” I whisper. “Always wanted to be indestructable, undefeatable. But you were my strength. You always have been. Every time I was weak, you cared for me. Every time I was low, you lifted me up. I always wanted to be the rock beneath all feet, but you? You were my rock. You were always the strong one and I am so thankful I had you. I could not have been who I became without you.”

She sobs delight and kisses me and it is our wedding kiss again. The two of us retreat from weighty statements to murmured nothings for as long as we have the energy to talk. With all else expended, we are left with only the energy to breathe and so we do.

Hovering back at the edge of dreams, I smile at how wonderful she smells. I wonder briefly if she ever thought the same of me and decide she would probably tell me I always smelled like I needed a bath and that she loved it. Before I can start the joke, I fall asleep.

Later that night, our bodies slowly begin their last moments. We prepare, we breathe, and we transcend.

The next morning, we’re discovered dead. No resuscitation attempts are made given our age and respective conditions. Our funeral is held a few weeks later.

The service briefly mentions how everyone knew we were so in love and how it was no surprise we died so close to each other. Hers was the strength I never had and mine was the inspiration she always craved. Love bound us and carried us forward, they say, and they don’t have any clue as to the half of it.

At our funeral, everyone cries. But I long ago wrote how I wanted my funeral to be a happy thing – a party at which everyone I knew could celebrate knowing each other, using my death as a reminder that we are all connected too briefly to do otherwise. The after-service is indeed such a party where there’s lots of dancing and the alcohol flows like air. The attendees breathe it in and carry it on.

######

It’s almost 3 AM and my body nudges me awake with impulses like sirens. Deja vu seizes me immediately and I wonder at how much dream the fever dream I had was. Regardless, my body has needs it wants me to take care of and so I stumble off to do so.

The soup and tea both go carefully into the fridge, gently moved. I could claim the morning breakfast I set up is done slowly because of my condition, but the truth is I’m treasuring it. Whether prophetic, or just a fantasy, I’ve definitely had a reminder that each of these moments is something best savored and slowly at that.

My lady – my plunder bunny – needs genuine rest and so I move her from couch to bed. “Whas’up hon?” she asks.

“You’re getting a bed.”

“Oh. You stay. You getta bed too.”

“Okay. Sleep you.”

I can’t see anything in the dark, but I know she’s turned her head to look at me, like she’s sensing something about me. “You feel better?”

“Had a crazy dream, but otherwise yes. While I was up I set out some stuff you can have for breakfast. Fruit in the fridge, cream of wheat on the counter. Coffee in the brewer, you can mix it with milk or whatever.”

“Thanks hon.”

“Of course, babe. I love you. Now get some sleep.”

“I love you too. You’ll have to tell me about the dream sometime.”

“Later,” I say, settling in. Much later. Maybe 25 or so years in, when we can look back and laugh at it.

I don’t really believe in prophetic dreams, but as far as life scenarios go my mind cooked up a decently realistic one to have. And if that’s how it ends, through cancer and everything, that’s one I’ll fight to make happen.

One thing’s for certain. Wherever we go from here, my decision’s made and I know the kind of engagement ring I’m looking for when I start searching tomorrow.

For now, I settle my cheek by her head and just breathe.