Читать книгу Laughing at Cancer - Ros Ben-Moshe - Страница 17

15 June 2011

The night before the night before

Tentatively we touched each other knowing that the next time we made love, things would be very different. The enormity of what lay ahead was too daunting. I buried myself in Danny’s caress, but the intimacy just brought me to tears. We had to make love once more. I wanted to, but how could we in such a sombre state?

The second opinion we received provided us with a sketch-ily drawn illustration of the bowel resection and where it fitted into the female body, wedged right amidst reproductive organs. For men, this is an easier operation. No risk to reproductive health and functions, but as the surgeon explained, for women, in cutting and remodelling parts of the bowel, due to the vagina’s close proximity (like a shared border) there was a chance they may be forever altered. At the time I didn’t think this was a good enough reason not to go ahead with the operation although I had been told a similar tale prior to childbirth, that weeing may never feel the same, and it had been true in my case.

So now there was even more pressure on this final time to make love. It might not ever feel the same. It was all just too much to bear … more tears!

Like pillows stuffed with stones we lay there; our voices non-verbal, our emotions too emotional. Bolstered by our love for each other, yet crumbling at the same time, both too scared to make the first move. Two blind mice in the dark. Who knows what the next few days will bring. Why can’t we bring ourselves to do this one act that we’ve done out of passion, out of our basic animal instincts, thousands of times before. Childhood sweethearts, never for one second predicting this as the road we would traverse.

Eventually it happened. Passion ran deep but silent. Afterwards we lay in each other’s arms. I glanced over at Danny and witnessed a tear slowly sliding from his eye. Sluggishly it moved down his cheek before being splayed by his one-day growth. How many tears he had shed before, I don’t know; but I was drowning just looking at this one teardrop. My gut was wrenching. Shedding imaginary tears, we fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.

In so many ways this is easier for me. I’m the one going through this in my own body; he’s powerless, a supportive bystander of the highest order. Neither he nor I have control over what may become; but we’re both terrified.

Now, sitting here writing, I feel sorry he chose me to anchor his love, sorry for bringing the one I love most, so much pain, sorrow and heartache. Whilst others may have affairs, my health is the source of betrayal, stepping in to change plans, slow me down, and rob me of my spirit and energy.

I’m so sorry Danny I’m not a more robust specimen of health. I know you don’t see things the way I do, nor likely feel this way, but that doesn’t prevent the guilt from consuming me. That micro-millilitre solitary tear you tried so hard to conceal says more about the depth of our love than an entire ocean.