In the hospital, they treated Nick with massive doses of steroids and radiation to his spine to relieve the pressure. He regained the sensation in his legs and was sent home after a few days.
But once we were back in LA, he went downhill fast. It was like, now that the tour was over, he’d given his body permission to start shutting down. At first, he had good days and bad days, but eventually, the days when he could get up and out of bed became few and far between, and as the good gave way to the bad, he became bedridden.
In the midst of Nick’s decline, I went in for exploratory surgery and came out with a diagnosis: tumors of low malignant potential on both ovaries. The good news was that I didn’t have full-fledged cancer, only a precursor to it. The bad news was that, in order to prevent it from spreading and turning into something more serious, both ovaries had to be removed. I tried to look on the bright side: I was cancer-free, my chance of survival was ninety-nine percent, and I could still get pregnant someday, using the frozen embryos I’d made from Nick’s sperm. But whenever I thought of having a baby that way, a baby that would be biologically Nick’s, I just wanted to cry. Nick would never know his own child.
But he was happy and relieved for me. “I’m glad you won’t have to go through the same shit I did,” he said, sitting in a wheelchair beside my hospital bed. It was weird to see our roles reversed for once – me, the patient, and him, the visitor. “I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”
I felt guilty, though, for getting a good prognosis when his was so grim. “Survivor’s guilt,” my dad told me, during one of our frequent phone conversations. “I felt the same way after your mom died. If I could have traded places with her, I would have. It seemed so unfair that I got to watch you grow up, and she didn’t. She loved you so much…”
I liked to think that my mother had watched me grow up, that she was watching over me still from some unearthly vantage point, and that when Nick passed on, he would go to the same place. But not even this fantasy could change the reality of my situation: it still sucked to be the one left behind.
After I came home from the hospital, we gradually resumed our old roles. Before long, I was back on my feet, and Nick was confined to his bed. I was getting better, while he was getting worse. The unfairness of it all really hit me then: I was going to live, and he was going to die, and there wasn’t anything either of us could do about it.
“This sucks,” Nick muttered one evening, as we were lying together in his bed, watching the sun set outside his window.
“I know,” I agreed quietly. There was no use pretending otherwise. I reached over to softly stroke his arm, ready to pull my hand back if he flinched. Some days, he liked to be touched this way, and at other times, it hurt him. The cancer in his spine affected the sensation in different parts of his body, and I never knew how he’d react. When he didn’t flinch, though, I kept stroking, up and down his forearm. His arm hair felt light and wispy against my fingertips, while the veins protruding from under his skin felt hard and wiry. Life was pumping through them, but at some point soon, it would stop. His skin would lose its warmth and grow cold. His muscles would go limp, then stiff. The blood would congeal in his veins.
I knew how death worked. I had seen it in the residents at the nursing home where I’d worked, old people who simply went to sleep and never woke up. But it disturbed me to think of that happening to Nick. He’s too young, I thought desperately. It’s too soon. I reached down and threaded my fingers through his, letting the warm, firm squeeze of his hand around mine reassure me.
I knew it bothered Nick, too. He still wanted me to sleep with him at night, even though he probably would have been more comfortable without me in his bed, and he kept me up late, just talking. I think he was afraid of dying in his sleep. We both knew that was probably how it would happen, though. He was already starting to sleep more often. He dozed off and on throughout the day, drifting off for a few hours at a time, almost like an infant does. It’s strange how, towards the end of life, we regress to how we began life.
“I bet you wish I’d never called you that day,” Nick said, after a long pause.
For a second, I wasn’t even sure what he was talking about, but then it clicked, and in my head, I could hear his voice singing “Evergreen” to me over the phone. A lump rose in my throat, but I choked out, “Of course not. Then I never would have gotten to know you. I wouldn’t have fallen in love.”
“You wouldn’t have anyone to grieve.”
“I would have,” I insisted, remembering that, before I’d met him, I’d still been a fan. “Just not in the same way.”
“It would have been better for you that way.”
“It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,” I recited automatically. Even though the words were trite, they were true. If I had a choice, I still wouldn’t trade in the year I’d had with Nick to take away the pain of losing him.
He turned his head toward me and smiled. It was a different smile than the one I was used to; it only stretched halfway across his face and didn’t reach his eyes, which had a faraway look, like a part of him was already gone. I missed his playful smirk, the way his eyes twinkled when he was teasing me. “Thanks,” he whispered, his fingers pressing into the back of my hand. “Thanks for loving me.”
I didn’t know what to say back to that. It wasn’t like I’d had a choice about whether or not to fall in love with him, either. My only choice had been to stay and take care of him, and that, I supposed, was really what he was thanking me for. So I just smiled back and leaned in closer to kiss his forehead, tasting the salty sweat on his skin and inhaling the familiar scent of his hair. At least those things hadn’t changed.
He had his eyes closed when I rolled away, and he was quiet for so long that I thought he’d fallen asleep – not unusual, these days. But then, out of the blue, he said, “So I’ve been thinking…”
“About what?” I prompted, after he trailed off.
“I know I’ve put you through a lot already, but there’s something else I want you to do for me, after I’m gone.”
“Name it,” I replied right away, knowing I’d do anything for him, but inside, my heart began to hammer. What was he going to ask me to do?
“I want to start a camp… a music camp, for kids with cancer. You know, somewhere they can go to get away from home and the hospital for awhile and just have fun. It’ll be centered around music and the arts, but there’ll be other stuff to do there, too – a lake where they can swim and go boating and fishing, basketball courts, and other sports and activities.”
“That sounds really cool, Nick, but-” I started to say that, as much as I liked the idea of it, I didn’t know anything about starting a camp. I’d never even gone to camp, myself, as a child. He knew I wasn’t the outdoorsy type. What did he expect me to do?
But I’d underestimated Nick. This wasn’t just an idea he’d thought of out of the blue. It was a fully-formed plan he’d already begun to put into action. “I already bought the land,” he went on, interrupting me. “Howie helped me find some. It’s in rural Tennessee, about halfway between Nashville and Memphis, where the St. Jude hospital is.”
“Perfect,” I whispered, with tears in my eyes, as I realized how much thought he’d put into this. He loved Tennessee, and it really was the perfect place for such a camp.
“Kevin’s going to oversee its development. His dad ran a summer camp, you know, when he was growing up, so he kinda knows what he’s doing. My money will finance it, but I need someone to run it. I need you, Cary.”
I took a deep breath and held it a few seconds before slowly releasing it. Then I said, “It’s a great idea, Nick. It really is. But… I don’t know anything about running a camp. My degree’s in medicine, not management.”
“I don’t expect you to do it alone. The guys will help you get whatever you need, and you can hire other help, as much as you need. But I want the person in charge to be someone who cares about me and is committed to carrying out my vision. I want it to be you. You’re the perfect person for the job; you know music, you know medicine, and you know me. That’s what matters the most.”
I felt overwhelmed with the enormous undertaking he was charging me with, but at the same time, I was flattered he was entrusting it to me. How could I say no? Till the day he died, I’d never be able to refuse Nick, especially not when his request was such an admirable one. “I’ll do my best, then,” I said and was rewarded with a real smile, one that brought light and life back into his eyes.
“Thank you,” he whispered, and returned my kiss.
Later that night, after Nick had fallen asleep, I got up and sat out on the balcony, rocking Hambelina like she was a baby. I think the soothing back and forth motion was more comforting to me than it was to her, though, of course, she lapped up all the love and attention I was showing her. With Nick so sick, she’d been neglected lately.
As I cradled her in my arms, I thought of Charlotte’s Web, the reason I’d always wanted a pet pig. My mom had read that book to me as a child. I remembered being eight or nine years old, snuggled up next to her in bed, enjoying the story of Wilbur, the pig, and Charlotte, the spider. At the time, I thought she’d chosen it because she knew how much I loved animals. It was only later that I realized she had read it to teach me about death… and to help prepare me for her own.
I was forever Wilbur, moved around from place to place, person to person, always to be left behind by the people who meant the most to me. My mother. My grandmother and grandfather. Now Nick. He was my Charlotte. He’d changed my life, helped me to make a name for myself, and just when my future was starting to look bright, cruel fate was going to step in and take him from me. All I could do to thank him was the same thing Wilbur had done for Charlotte – take care of his “magnum opus,” his great work, and help bring his children safely into the world.
I would run the camp. I would have his babies, once I met someone to help me raise them. I would go on living and try to make something of my own life.
In my head, I knew these things would happen, someday, but in my heart, I couldn’t imagine living without him or loving anyone else. I could hardly stand to think of the future, knowing he wouldn’t be a part of it. It hurt too much. It hurt so much, I felt like I was dying right alongside him, and I knew my pain would linger long after his stopped for good.
If I wasn’t ready to face the future without Nick, then all I could do was cherish every moment of the present. With that thought in mind, I went back inside and crawled into bed with Nick. I snuggled up next to him, savoring the warmth of his body and the soft sound of his breathing. It hadn’t yet taken on the death rattle of fluid build-up in his lungs, a sure sign that the end was near. His lungs sounded clear, his breathing slow and steady. I closed my eyes and let the reassuring sound of it soothe me to sleep.
***
