I hadn’t had an orgasm during the seven weeks I was on my
own in America. I hadn’t missed it like I thought I would. I was either too
busy or too exhausted to care.
At 3.30am the
morning after my diagnosis of plasma cell leukemia I tapped Alex on the
shoulder. I needed to have sex urgently. In spite of the early hour he
willingly complied. Men are good that way. I woke him again at 8am. I wanted
more sex. It was a compulsion that had nothing to do with being horny or making
up for months of celibacy. I was plummeting into the abyss and sex was the
tether that tied me to Alex and through him, to the world. Sex gave me some
control back. It was a giant two fingers to cancer. You might have got part of
me you bastard, but I can still make the rest of my body behave the way I want
it to.
Alex had always
been my best friend and my rock. I turned to him for comfort when I had a minor
traffic accident, when I was overwhelmed at work or when the cashier screwed-up
at the bank. He would put his arm around me and dry my tears and I felt better.
But nothing prepared us for this. I needed Alex in ways I hadn’t needed him in
a long time. I clung to him on this sinking ship that was my life. He didn’t
know where or when I would strike next, but thankfully he was up to the
challenge.
After an
exhaustingly amorous week I was battling to retain control over my mind. I
wanted to keep having sex to feel alive. But I was getting so distracted by my
illness it was starting to be impossible to unwind enough to enjoy it. The
light that had burned so brightly from my erotic alter ego had dimmed. Like
going blind, my other senses became keener. I could feel every throb as the
blood pulsed through my veins. Every pounding thump of my heart echoed as if it
was in a canyon. I became obsessed with
every perceived breakdown in my mortal chassis. My right hand felt a little
tingly. A rib hurt. My stomach ached. With every twitch and every twinge my
brain worked to decipher: “Is this the cancer or just an ordinary feeling?”
Now every
morning, instead of sex, the first thing on my mind was to take observations of
my blood pressure, weight and temperature. I couldn’t converse until I had
charted my progress or deterioration. Even then, the conversation would
undoubtedly be about my disease.
I
asked Alex if it looked like I had lost weight. I already knew I was 4.5 kg (10
pounds) lighter than I had been before I went to America so it was a trick
question.
“Yes,”
he said. “It’s sexy, but it’s not you”.
I’m
sure he meant well but I was insulted. I took it to mean: a: I am not normally
sexy; b: I am usually fat. Would I soon be too
sick and too ugly to be desirable?
The
rampant sex evaporated. The rope holding me to Alex had become a string and it
was fraying fast. One evening we sat in the kitchen staring at each other over
cheddar cheese and a glass of sauvignon blanc wishing we could turn back the
clock. Alex started:
“I
regret I didn’t make you go to a doctor earlier in the year.”
“Ssslurp.” I took a large sip of wine.
“I
don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said softly.
“Sniffle.”
“I
don’t know if I’ll stay in New Zealand.”
“Mwaa,
mwaa.” (Please don’t cut the string. I am still here.)
I
cried and then I was angry. It was my job to be hopeless, not his. He went from
being my most fervent supporter to talking about my death. He had given up on
me.
“I’m
really depressed now.” I poured another glass and sobbed into it.
“Sorry.
I’ve never been any good at support.” He threw his hands up in the air and
walked away. Then in the tumble dryer that is my psyche, I came full circle. I
would have to hang in there in spite of what he or anyone thought about my
condition. That night I wrote in my diary:
“Fuck
you fuck you fuck you, I am going to do my best to outlive you all.”
It
was the only way to go on. In the morning I lay in bed and contemplated my life
for hours. I thought about the things Alex said and I was angry again. On one
side I thought he just needed to be able to tell me what he was thinking and I
was being spectacularly unfair about judging him for it. On the other side I
wanted him to stay the rock he had always been for me. It was his role to be
strong and positive. I was doing enough worrying for both of us.
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