Sex became an Issue

Sex became an issue. Mentally I struggled to forget about the cancer and chemotherapy and get to a place in my head where I could relax. But to disengage from my disease was like trying to dislodge a reluctant relative from the guest room. Physically my stomach felt like it was full of rocks. Constipation was a daily battle. A small child with wind is funny. For a grown woman it was hardly romantic. These were constant reminders that I was sick, not sexy.  Foreplay and fornication were being pushed way down the list of my daily concerns.

      I diverted my amorous energies into researching my disease and my abysmal prognosis. I willingly replaced sex with reading pamphlets on multiple myeloma and velcade. In bed I would turn over and pretend to be asleep to avoid sex because I knew I wouldn’t be able to step outside of my situation for long enough to have an orgasm. Sometimes, when I felt Alex had waited too long, I would shut my eyes and try to find a fantasy situation that would get me excited. I thought of sex scenes from movies or books, I even heightened it with some amateur bondage, but in the end it was always the same. I couldn’t even conjure up a good looking stranger who would want to ravish a dying woman.

      Anniversary sex was always a given. But since I had a doctor’s appointment on our anniversary we delayed the celebration and booked a hotel for the night of Sunday, January eighth. Saturday morning Alex was tapping me on the shoulder.

      “Interested?

      “Saving myself for the hotel.”

I wasn’t interested at all in having sex. He left me alone but I was worried the “celebration” wasn’t going to go any better. I was right to be nervous. 

      Our anniversary getaway started out frantically. Over a lovely dinner of chicken stuffed ravioli in a white cream sauce and half a bottle of wine, I emptied my head.  Instead of talking about current affairs and work, like we usually would, it was like I was at one of those five-minute dating sessions. I needed to tell him everything before my bell tolled.

      “I’ve made my will. There’s filing to be done. Sarah had a vision that Abby will marry a tall, blonde Englishman. Charlotte is worried about your health as well as mine and it is too much for a young girl. I’m really proud of our daughters. Some of my friends don’t know how old I really am. I want to move.”

      The last thing sparked a positive response. Alex started talking about our retirement and where we might want to live. We talked about moving to London, and touring Europe.

      As the wine flowed I spoke excitedly about these new plans and I told him I looked forward to the next stage of our life. Then we walked outside and my nose bled a little. Everything went out the window, our future, my sense of security, my life. I was dying again.

      We got back to the motel and although I tried to feign a good mood I was obsessing over whether the drinking had interfered with the medication which caused my nose to bleed. My stomach was heavy and uncomfortable and my mind was tied up in knots. Alex offered to open a bottle of champagne but I did not feel like bubbles and celebration. Then I felt guilty. In twenty-six years we had never missed out on having sex on our anniversary. I stretched out on the bed, shut my eyes and tried to loosen up. But after a valiant effort on Alex’s part, I could not reach orgasm. I could not remove myself from all the fear. We both lay awake. My heart was racing. He stroked my arm and my head until I was sleepy.

      The next morning I wanted to try again. I needed to wipe away the sense of failure from the previous evening. I wanted to remind myself that I was still alive, and to prove that although the drugs were interfering with my body, nothing was going to change. But everything had changed, dramatically. Again I could not manage an orgasm. I just couldn’t unwind.

      It was like the cancer had filled my brain as well as my bone marrow. A multiplying foreign army of cells was now in charge of my frontal lobe. From command central the electric impulses to my genitals had been switched off and replaced with a total dedication to my disease.

      Little did I know but after our anniversary Alex made a conscious choice not to initiate sex. If it was going to happen, I would have to ask for it. It was a good plan. He never knew from day to day which emotion would have a hold over me and he never wanted me to feel pressured. He was willing to wait it out. It worked.  A few weeks later I caught the foreign invader in my skull asleep. I had briefly taken back control and I woke up feeling amorous.

      “Want sex?” I asked Alex.

      “I always want sex”.

He’d been really patient. But as we got busy I started thinking about something I read. It was a warning that you should not have rough sex or dry sex with low immunity. During foreplay instead of getting excited I was fearful. I thought: I hope he doesn’t have long fingernails. If he scratches me, that could lead to infection and possibly death. Very sexy!