Sickness

His laugh was a thunderous ‘haw haw haw,’ just like a cartoon baddie or some black-hatted villain from the westerns he used to love watching on AMC. When people first met him, they usually thought he was faking it, as some sort of strange joke that they were the butt of. But he wasn’t, he really did laugh like that and you could never really get used to it, no matter what. So, after a while, you just tried to not make him laugh, which was no easy matter, as he always had a joke up his sleeve. And his jokes were funny, so you had to laugh and what he got off on was making people laugh. So there you were, laughing, snickering, or giggling and soon the ‘haw haw haw’ would echo throughout the house. Deep down, I think he knew his laughter bothered people and what I loved about him is that he just didn’t give a damn.

When I first heard he had cancer, I couldn’t believe it. I was having my morning coffee in my un-tied bathrobe, which was getting a bit too tight at the gut; I was gazing out of the kitchen window at the neighbor’s dog taking his umpteenth dump on our lawn, when I heard my wife sobbing. I turned around and noticed her eyes were filled with tears. I didn’t know what to say, it just seemed too early for tears and drama, especially on a Saturday.

She was sitting at the table, her fingers busy twirling a napkin ring. She took a deep breath and looked at me, saying she had something to tell me, that she just couldn’t keep it all for herself. My first thought was that her friend Bonnie had cancer again, that her breast tumor was back and that this time, it was malignant. But when she started her sentence with “my dad,” it took me a second to fully understand what she was talking about.

Her dad. My father-in-law. Raymond. Ray to his friends. He had cancer. Not just any cancer, oh no, but liver cancer. Inoperable.

“Don’t they do liver transplants?” I asked my wife.

“They do, but they can’t. It’s too far ahead.”

“Didn’t Ray get check-ups every year?”

“He did, but he never talked about his liver. Even though he’d been in pain for the last few years.”

Few years? I couldn’t believe it! Why hadn’t he talked to his doctor about it? Or to us? Or to anybody, for that matter?

“Because he didn’t want anybody to worry.”

I set my cup on the counter and sat down facing her.

“Well, we’re worrying now, so why is he telling us now?”

“Because he’s...”

She couldn’t finish her sentence, but I knew what she was about to say. “Because he’s going to die.” And soon.

I felt a deep irrational anger. Anger because: how dare he die on us?! How dare he get cancer? We’d have to call the mortuary, we’d have to “shop” for a coffin, for a plot at the cemetery... How in the world to you go about doing that?

Of course, I hated myself for thinking that way, but I didn’t know how or what else to think. This was all new to me; I didn’t know how to react. In movies, they usually break down in tears, hug and realize how fickle life is and in the end, everything changes for the best. But in real life? In real life you mostly stay quiet, keep the tears in, and think back on the good times. You also want to spend as much time with the soon-to-be-departed, but at the same time, you don’t really want to see that person at all, because you want to remember him the way he used to be: healthy, funny, strong. Not frail, sickly and gray looking. Because that’s how they look: gray. As if life was slowly fading away. Of course, that’s exactly what’s happening, but who knew death was gray?

And so on that day, my wife and I spent the morning in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes and looking out the window, at the kitchen table, at the trinkets we had amassed during out fourteen years of marriage, at the curtains that needed ironing, at the carpets that needed washing, and at pretty much anything else that was inanimate. It felt trivial to feel thirsty or hungry. It felt trivial to be too cold, or too warm. Everything we took for granted was unimportant. Everything we would usually complain about felt ridiculous. Because how could we complain? Next month, we’d still be alive with our so-called worries. But Ray wouldn’t be. So, really, truly: how could we complain?

In a way, I resented Ray dying: Because I couldn’t complain to him. People love to bitch and moan about their problems but, most importantly: they love to have people feel sorry for them. How can you complain about the hole in your new shirt to a cancer patient? And if you can’t complain about your life, what is there left to talk about? Well, you have to listen to the cancer patient complain about his life and the rotten luck he’s having and you just have to care and you hate that. Because cancer tops it all. It’s the ultimate complaint, the ultimate answer to everything: “Oh yeah? Well, I got cancer.” Nothing to say to that.

At eleven, my wife and I got dressed. We were going to pay Ray a visit. Of course, I knew that we’d be wearing fake smiles and that we’d talk about everything except his disease and his dying, and we’d pretend to be cheery and it would all seem so fake; but we’d all pretend it wasn’t. He’d even crack a joke or two and his laughter would sound weak and frail and I’d realize that I was going to miss this laugh that I used to dislike so much. I also knew that as soon as we’d be back in the car, my wife would start sobbing and I’d have to hug her and pat her on the back and tell her that things would be okay and she would say “no, that’s the point, nothing’s gonna be okay!” And so I’d have to stay quiet and hold her until the sobs subsided and I’d be able to put the key in the ignition and drive back to our house, where we’d probably have a drink and she’d cry some more and tell me she didn’t feel like cooking dinner tonight and I’d play the understanding and caring husband, telling her she shouldn’t even worry about that, that we could order something in, and so I’d pay thirty bucks for lukewarm Chinese food that she wouldn’t even eat and I’d tell her she just had to eat something and she’d tell me she wasn’t hungry, that she just wanted to go to sleep and so she would go upstairs while I ate the by-now-cold spring rolls, and I’d watch some TV before cleaning up and joining my wife in bed. She’d be wide awake, of course, crying and staring at the wall, curled up into a ball, and I’d hug her some more and tell her things I didn’t really mean, such as “everything will be okay.” This time she wouldn’t contradict me, because she’d want to believe it.

            We would then finally fall asleep only to wake up the next morning, more tired than when we’d gone to bed, and we’d realize we hadn’t dreamed it all, that we were still surrounded by reality and impending death. Worst of all, I’d have to keep pretending I was the strong type and comfort her, making sure I didn’t cry in front of her. One day, maybe she would be thankful for all of this, but it would be too late because by then I’d hate her for having forced me into becoming the strong type, because I never was the strong type and always hated hiding my feelings. After all, Ray was like the father I’d never had. But by then, I’d have become so good at masking my emotions that I’d also be able to hide my resentment of her. She’d eventually realize my feelings had changed, but she’d still pretend she loved me because of how good I had been when her father had passed away, and so we would keep living this lie until one of us died.

We got in the car and drove to see Ray, me already dreading everything that was bound to happen, but nonetheless ready to start acting the great tragedy that would become our life.