It was easier for me to play cheerleader; I wasn’t the one shitting the bed and gritting my teeth through the pain. Clark: yes Me: i don’t think anything compares to IL2. i think it’s less puking, pooping, ill feeling and more weak, tired.Clark: babies, did they say the next treatment is rough? however, IL2 has a really low success rate, the other treatment has a high one.The ease of our everyday interactions is what kills me. The first surgery, a deep lymph-node dissection of the left groin, and its subsequent days-long hospital stay, spanned the first week of April 2008.
My eyes sting as I read a newspaper article describing the latest study to come out of a cancer conference, which involves a drug trial that Clark was too sick to participate in.
I slink off to the bathroom with my head down, ignoring my friends at the bar, when I catch a glimpse of his obituary, which hangs on the back of a door at the Black Cat, the bar where we met.
I go looking for evidence of our partnership that’s not tied to a memory of me sleeping on two chairs pushed together next to his hospital bedside.
My Gmail is a priceless hoard of us making plans, telling inside jokes, calling each other “snoodle” and “bubbies.” I type his name into the search field and enter a world of the unscripted dialogue that filled our 9-to-5 existence. In hundreds of chats automatically saved to my account, we express our love for each other readily and naturally in our own private speech.
He barely remembered specifics the next day, but I still get a lump in my throat when I think about it.