It was the first day of warmth and sun Chicago had experienced after a long, dreary winter. Although it was mid-week, work wasn’t going to stop us from going out and soaking up the beautiful weather. After a few “cough, cough” filled calls to our bosses, Dan and I grabbed the bikes and started our adventure.
We circumvented the city a few times that day–stopping to admire the skyline reflecting in the lake at the North Avenue bend, cheering on the impromptu soccer games that developed down south, and ending the day with ice cold beers at Navy Pier.
Sounds like a perfect day, right? But looking back on that adventure now and how it would later change our lives, I should have sucked it up and went to work. If we would have played by the rules then, I may not be wondering how much time I have left with him now.
You see, we were young. And you don’t plan your adventures when you’re in your twenties. You don’t think about how your actions can affect the future. And you surely don’t have the forethought to pack sunscreen on the off chance he’d want to take off his shirt as we peddled our way through the day.
Dan has suffered from fair, freckled skin all his life. And I try to tell myself that it was likely the succession of multiple minor sunburns since childhood that transformed the stray mole on his back. But deep down, I know it was because of that day: the sun beating down on skin that had been sheltered for six months, the curvature of his back as it is hunched over a pair of handlebars which allowed the UV rays to penetrate every pore, and the obscene amount of hours we allowed it to happen.
The burn from that day lasted a week. If we’d been older, wiser, we probably would have gone to the hospital. But no, we were kids–invincible, ornery, stubborn kids. We slathered on aloe vera lotion and looked the other way.
Several years later it happened. Honestly, I’m not sure if it took years to form or years for us to see it, but it happened. Melanoma. He had surgery to remove it. Subsequent tests showed it had not spread to his lymph nodes, nor to his surrounding skin. So we forgot about it. No, not forgot. We pushed it to the back of our minds and decided not to talk about it again.
Then six years later, it pushed its way back into our minds–literally. As I was getting ready for work one morning, Dan had a grand mal seizure on our kitchen floor as our two-year old daughter and I watched. At first I thought he was pulling a gag. Have you ever seen someone have a seizure? I certainly hadn’t, so for the first few seconds I thought he was acting. Then my brain processed what was happening, “You are watching your husband die.”
It was the scariest five minutes I’ve ever experienced. Followed by the longest five days of our lives together. During that time, we found out the melanoma had made its way into his blood stream and deposited itself on his brain. He had a tumor the size of a golf ball that would have to be removed with surgery.
They say that your life flashes in front of you when you come face-to-face with tragedy. It’s true. These are the images we saw: We met each other twice when we were 13…we shared a dance and he played a song. At the end of both events we were not quite ready to part, but were too young to understand its meaning.
Two years later our paths crossed again. Our separate circles of friends merged at the local pool and continued to float along with each other all summer long. The group broke into pairs here and there, but nothing could match the couple that was forming in the background. Dan and I were slowly unearthing our deeper connection and we continued to peel back its layers over the next few years.
College was a time of growth: growing up, growing strong, growing independent, and finally growing apart. The attraction of our relationship was strong, but the draw of individuality was stronger. We finally called it quits and walked our separate ways. But after time, I felt something was missing. I was being pulled toward something that I couldn’t quite comprehend. Until one day it hit me: I missed my best friend.
I had no way of knowing if he felt the same, but I did know I could never live with the regret of never having asked. So I wrote a letter. (Yes, a letter. It was 1996–email was not prevalent, texting was non-existent, and we were living in two different states.)
At the same moment, he and his housemates decided to leave Iowa City and move to Chicago. Planning to leave his old life–and our relationship–behind, he said his final farewells. He spent the afternoon on a bench where we had carved our initials the previous year, made peace, then finished packing.
Luckily, a bit of the pull held onto him as well. They had to make a return trip for the last of their belongings. What he found when they got there was my letter. That was all it took. Slowly our friendship was reunited and our love for each other was rekindled. Five years later we got married; seven years after that we had our daughter.
Our days were filled with laughter–usually at the same jokes told time and time again. Our nights were filled with endless conversations about where life was taking us. To say we are high school sweethearts is an understatement. To say we are soul mates is a bit cliché. To say there is something bigger than us that draws us to each other and unites us seems more accurate.
We couldn’t possibly visit every image of our 18 years together in the three short days before his surgery, but we sure did try. I wanted every single one of them to be tattooed in my memory. I didn’t want to forget.
Thankfully, the brain surgery was successful. The tumor was removed and his full head of long, brown, curly locks was saved. The rest of his body was clean and we were again ready to put this episode behind us. The cancer, however, was not.
Over the next two years it moved haphazardly through his body, leaving mounds of black cells in its wake. There has been radiation…more seizures…a pill that pushed him toward kidney failure…a treatment that sent him into rigors every eight hours for weeks. And yet through all that, his cancer grows more aggressive with every set of scans.
At some point along the way, I’ve started thinking about life in terms of weeks and months instead of years and decades. I envision having to walk through this world alone. And I’m preparing myself for the day when my planned life morphs into this new one.
I cannot seem to control the future, so I find myself grasping for a way to reverse my past. That damn bike ride. “You stupid kids!” I want to yell. And then I want to cry. I want to go back in time. I would do anything to change our marching orders…anything to make this go away…anything to ensure that my husband can live to see his daughter grow up…anything to keep my best friend at my side forever.
1327 Consulting 