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Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Another Chapter

After six months of inexplicable anxiety attacks and ineffective medication, an MRI yesterday discovered the root of the problem. The sudden clenched jaws, wringing hands, disorientation and memory blips were not caused by anxiety, after all, but were actually miniature seizures. What the tests uncovered is a brain tumor resting on the temporal lobe above my boyfriend’s left ear.

I don’t yet comprehend what that means, but I imagine it as a black and angry hen jealously protecting its egg.

—

At 8 a.m. I left his loft to return to my apartment and get ready for work, while he headed to the doctor for an MRI. It was supposed to rule out the possibility of a tumor, crossing one more explanation for the anxiety attacks off the list.

At a little after 11 a.m. the phone rang at my desk. I recognized his cell number.

“Hello?”

He was crying. My heart sank and tears welled up before he said it.

“Aaron… my oncologist found a brain tumor.”

“Oh, no.” My gut wrenched and my head instantly hurt.

“I’m on my way home now and I have to call my parents. I’m afraid to tell them.”

“I’m leaving work and coming over.”

At 29, he’s already a three-time cancer survivor. His body is a topographical map of scars. Six inches below his right knee his leg turns from flesh to silicone. All bodies have a story, I believe. Casey’s story is just more visible than most.

—

When his parents arrived at his loft yesterday afternoon, I returned to my apartment to give them time alone. I took off my clothes and turned on a hot shower. For 30 minutes I stood with my forehead against the cold tile and the water running down my back. It’s easiest to imagine the worst, and I did… My thoughts running wild down a dark path enabled by the unknown.

And then I turned off the faucet and dried off. And I opened my work laptop and worked.

For the seven months that I’ve known him, Casey has consistently shown me that no matter what the situation, life is good and that it is meant to enjoy. Through cool evenings under a canopy of stars in the Wisconsin woods, hours working together in the same office and the frequent bubble baths that we share, I’ve been lucky to discover and fall in love with someone who doesn’t dwell on the difficult things, but who savors the good. I don’t know a single person who knows him who would disagree.

There is no doubt that this sucks and that it’s scary. It seems unfair and unbelievable. My heart aches, and it ached to see Casey’s parents hug him yesterday. But this also is one more chance to lean on the web of loved ones, to grow closer and to find real beauty and love among the ashes. Casey’s strength already sustains me, and it’s my job and honor to offer the same, along with the many other loved ones in his life.

There are more questions than answers at this point. Surgery will come. The indications right now point to benign. It’s one thing at a time. And throughout, life must continue.
—

We had planned for more than a month to see one of our favorite artists – Ray LaMontagne – in concert yesterday evening. And we did. It wasn’t even a question. We’re going, he said. It was an amazing, soothing, renewing concert that we enjoyed from our second-row seats, our hands gripped tight and bellies full from delicious tapas. And when we arrived home, bowls of ice cream with chocolate syrup greeted us for dessert.

“It was a beautiful end to a not-so-great day,” Casey said. And he meant it. I nodded in agreement. He fell asleep within five minutes of going to bed.

Posted by Aaron on November 28, 2006 8:42 PM