Earlier this year my parents and I got some sad news: Our family dog has cancer. She’s 13 and a half, hard of hearing, and slightly blind, so we’re all of one accord on not taking drastic measures to prolong her life when the time comes. I mentioned briefly a few months ago that I had received some sad news but have avoided following up because I don’t want to think about it. I still don’t. We are crushed.
So why mention it now? Because the same thing is happening with Ren. She’s not well, and I’m having a hard time dealing with that reality. Last Tuesday morning I awoke from a dream in which she was sick — very sick. I was desperate to see her, but her sister, whom I’ve never met, was trying to keep me out of her room. I finally managed to get in just in time for her to plant one last kiss on my cheek.
The kiss woke me up. I was overcome with the need to hear her voice, so I called before heading to work. She answered on the fifth ring. She sounded weak. Frail. She confessed that she was sick and she cut the call short. I convinced myself that she wasn’t that sick. That she probably just had a cold or something. After all, if it had been terribly serious, our mutual friend would’ve dropped me an e-mail to let me know. Right?
On Wednesday I had another dream, this time of DC. It was one of his visits. It was a great visit — we reenacted our first kiss. But when I woke up I remembered that this wasn’t the first time that I’ve dreamed of Ren and DC in the same week. It unnerved me then; it unnerved me this time. All this death, past and possible.
The dread lingered, so yesterday I e-mailed Ren’s and my mutual friend just so that she could put my fears aside. Only she didn’t. She was very honest in telling me that this amazing, vibrant woman we have loved for so long is failing, and quickly. She cautioned me to not be surprised if she didn’t know who I was the next time I called. People she’s known for decades are lost to her memory. She’s suffering from severe back problems and is now using a cane or a walker. And she stays in bed most days. Ren tells people that she doesn’t think she’ll make it to her next birthday.
I started to shake. Tears filled my eyes. I was at work when I read this — a good thing since it kept me from completely falling apart — and was again overcome with the need to talk to Ren immediately. So I called. She sounded stronger and, thank God, she knew exactly who I was. I told her that I was thinking about her and that I hoped she was feeling better. She seemed delighted at the call.
And then she proceeded to tell me things that one would say to another during a last conversation. How much she loved me. How much she’s treasured our friendship. It’s not that she hasn’t said these things to me before. But this time? There was a sense of urgency. A forcefulness to her tone, like she was engraving the words on my soul.
I must’ve told her I love her a dozen times before I hung up, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. I sat at my desk and cried.
* * *
When we got the news about Daisy’s cancer earlier this year, I thought to myself, “This is just the beginning. Things are moving, shifting. This year isn’t done with me yet.” I tried to chalk it up to the realization that I’m in my mid-40s and that people in my life are of viable, dieable ages. But the sense of foreboding is too great. It scares me, so much so that I had to force myself to write these words here. I want to escape my skin.
Sometimes this world is too much for me.
veronica's day in the life 