Page 12 of A Mother’s Last Wish

12

TOM

I’ve always loved watching Lou, from the day we met, when I found my eyes drawn to her again and again. One of the first things I noticed was the way she threw her head back when she laughed, really committing to the feeling, instead of worrying about how she might look. She never needed to worry about that, because how she looked was beautiful, and not just on the outside. When she laughed, I could see the joy in her eyes; it was infectious and I struggled to look away.

Now, almost fifteen later, I still love watching her, but these last few weeks have changed everything. When I watch her now, I find myself looking for evidence that they’ve got her diagnosis wrong. If she seems like she’s glowing with health, that must mean she can’t have cancer, except I’d be lying if I tried to pretend there’s a glow. She looks exhausted, the dark circles under her eyes spelling out how little she’s sleeping right now. I’m not doing much better, but when I do drift off, I often wake with a start. Lou is hardly ever in bed beside me and, on the rare occasions that she is, I can see the light from her phone reflected on her face. She’s spending hours online and I can’t blame her, I am too. It’s easy to believe the internet has the answer to everything, and that all you have to do is google your question. Except it isn’t true. There’s no miraculous cure for pancreatic cancer and I don’t think that’s what Lou is searching for anyway. When I asked her, she gave a deliberately vague answer that makes me feel like she’s hiding something. Only I can’t imagine what secret she feels she needs to keep from me now.

‘Why are you staring at me?’ She narrows her eyes as she looks up from her phone and catches me watching her.

‘I just like looking at you, I always have.’ I smile, but the ache in my chest never seems to lift these days, and I don’t want to admit that I’m terrified that a time might come soon when I won’t have the chance to look at her any more.

‘I’m a mess.’ Lou tucks a strand of honey blonde hair behind her ear. ‘But I’ve got a feeling it’s about to get much worse.’

‘It might not be as bad as you think.’ Even as I’m saying the words I want to stuff them back down my throat. We’re sitting in the waiting room and she’s about to go in for her first chemo session, so why the hell am I trying to feed my wife that kind of bullshit? We both know the treatment is going to suck, we’ve been warned by Mira who came to see us at home yesterday. I freaked out when Lou told me that Mira had suggested coming to our house. I’d read through all the information she gave us when Lou was first diagnosed, and from what I could make out Macmillan nurses only did home visits as part of a patient’s end of life care.

‘Why’s she coming here?’ My tone was aggressive, like I was spoiling for a fight, and in that moment, I was prepared to have one. I wouldn’t accept that’s where we were, and if Mira even tried to suggest it, I’d happily slam the door in her face. I might finally have agreed to talk to Lou about some of the things she wants to ensure will happen once she’s gone, but I’m not ready to accept that the treatment won’t buy us a lot more time and that she’s a long way off from needing palliative care. Thankfully Lou’s response to my question was like a lead weight lifting off my chest.

‘She doesn’t usually do home visits, but she’s going to see a friend in Little Halsham and, as it’s only four miles away, she asked if she could pop in for a chat.’ Lou had rolled her eyes. ‘It’s probably because I haven’t made another appointment to see her. She’s been lovely, but I’ve got enough appointments already, without adding optional ones.’

‘Did she say what she wants to talk about?’ The icy fear that never seems too far away these days gripped my spine again. I wasn’t sure I could believe Mira’s story about visiting a friend in a neighbouring village, but surely she wouldn’t turn up on our doorstep to bring us more bad news. I couldn’t imagine there was anything worse someone could say than what we’d already been told, but then again, a few weeks ago, I could never have imagined our lives would be devastated in this way. It’s like a bomb has gone off.

As it turned out, the reason for Mira’s visit seemed to be about helping Lou to prepare for what the chemo might bring, and so that I would know what to expect too. Given that we now know the harsh reality, all my talk about it not being as bad as Lou might expect is even more unforgiveable and I’m so sorry. I wish I could take this from her, and that it was me going through it instead. I’m not just saying that to try and be some kind of hero, because I know it’s not a game of pass the parcel, I really mean it. A world without Lou will affect far more people than a world without me, and I can’t imagine any version of me without her. So I’m not even going to try. I won’t do it until I’m forced to.

‘My hair is going to fall out and I’m going to be so sick. You know how much I hate being sick.’ Lou takes a shuddering breath, and I’m tempted to grab her hand and make a run for the doors, away from this room where everyone around us is waiting for treatment. Some of them are clearly old hands, with coping mechanisms to get them through the torture that’s to come. One woman next to us, who looks to be in her mid-fifties, is knitting, the click-clack of the needles relentless. She hasn’t stopped once since we arrived, and I suspect it’s because she doesn’t want the time or space to think. Her head is covered by a bandana and her eyebrows and lashes are missing. She’s like a mirror of all the fears Lou has for herself. Opposite her, a young lad who can’t be much more than about twenty is watching his phone. Every so often he laughs at something on the screen, and I wonder if I could be anywhere near as stoic in his shoes. He is painfully thin and is seated in a wheelchair; a girl of about his age has her head pressed against his shoulder as they laugh together at whatever it is they’re watching. I’m useless compared to this young couple, and it feels as though I forgot how to laugh or smile when Mr Whitelaw explained just how extensively Lou’s cancer had spread. But I need to say something to try and reassure my wife, and this time I take her hand.

‘I’ll stay with you if you’re sick, I promise I won’t leave you alone.’ She nods and I let out a long breath, grateful that I seem for once to have said the right thing. No one likes being sick, but I know why it scares Lou so much. When her father was in the heaviest phase of drinking he almost died choking on his own vomit. It was only because Lou and Holly came back early from their grandparents’ house that they found him in time. They were able to clear his airways and raise the alarm, at just eleven years old. No child should ever have to see something like that, and it’s no surprise she’s carried a phobia of being sick for the last three decades as a result. She struggled with that more than anything else during her pregnancies, and she was scared of being alone until her morning sickness had passed.

‘I need to talk to you about something.’ Lou is holding my gaze, and I already know this is another conversation I don’t want to have. Ever since the C word was mentioned, she’s been pushing to talk about her death, and what comes after that. I know it’s hurt her when I’ve refused to do it, but I’ve been terrified that if we even consider the possibility, we’ll be creating some kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. I wanted to focus on a very different outcome, visualising the treatment doing what it’s supposed to do and holding the cancer at bay for as long as possible. It was inevitable that Lou would lose patience with me trying to fob her off. I don’t blame her for feeling frustrated, especially because however positively I try to think, even I’ve got to face the fact that we haven’t got forever, or anything like it. Yet I still feel the fight or flight kicking in every time she wants to talk about the ‘after’, and that hasn’t changed despite the conversations we’ve started to have.

‘Aren’t you going to ask what I want to talk about?’

‘Maybe now’s not the time; it’s your first chemo treatment and that’s enough for one day.’

‘I think I should be the judge of that, don’t you?’ Lou’s tone is tight, and the pitch of her voice is raised, making the woman next to us finally pause the click-clack rhythm of her knitting needles.

‘Let’s at least wait until we get home.’ I don’t care if the knitting lady wants to eavesdrop on our conversation, that’s not what bothers me, and I don’t care if I cry in front of strangers, because it’s happened so many times already. Yesterday I even cried in the queue at Sainsbury’s, buying the conditioner Lou always uses and wondering whether she’s ever going to get through the bottle, let alone need me to buy her another one. What bothers me about having the conversation now is the chance of me upsetting Lou and making the experience of her first treatment even worse.

‘I don’t want to wait, I need to talk to you about what will happen when you meet someone else.’

‘For Christ’s sake Lou, how can you even think about that?’ I feel like a total bastard for snapping at her when she’s going through so much, but this is something she started mentioning a few days ago and she can’t seem to understand that it’s the last thing on my mind.

‘There’s no point pretending it’s not going to happen because it will.’ Lou’s mouth is set in a grim line, but she can’t stop her chin from wobbling, the way it always does when she’s about to cry. It’s hurting her so much to imagine this scenario, and she doesn’t need to, because I don’t want anyone else. I want Lou and if I can’t have her, I’d rather be on my own forever. I’ve told her this already, but it’s like I’m not even speaking. I try again anyway.

‘I don’t want anyone, if I can’t have you.’

‘That’s because I’m still here. It will be different when I’m gone.’ She swallows hard enough for me to hear it, and I just want to hold her and keep repeating what I’ve just said until she finally realises I mean it. But I don’t think it will matter how many times I say it, so I try a different tack.

‘What do you want me to say, Lou? That I’m going to replace you the moment you’re gone? Is that what you really think of me? Of us?’ I’m not angry at Lou, I’m broken-hearted that she feels so replaceable, but the rage I feel about the situation is threatening to erupt too.

‘I’m not saying it’s going to be the day after my funeral, but it will happen and that’s okay, I want you to move on.’ The catch in Lou’s voice suggests otherwise, but she swallows hard again. ‘What I don’t want is for you to pick the wrong person. I won’t be here to make sure of that, but if we talk about what will be important for the kids, in terms of anyone you do bring home, then maybe that will be the next best thing.’

‘Lou please don’t, this is not—’ I’m desperately trying to find a way to end the conversation, but she cuts me off.

‘Shall I start? The most important thing is that she’s kind to Stan and Flo, and that?—’

‘Lou, no! I’m not going to talk about meeting someone else, because I don’t want to, not now, not ever .’ It’s my turn to cut her off. I can’t do this, I’m not ready and the truth is I don’t think I ever will be. I’m a selfish coward, because I can see how much she needs this, but she has to believe the doctors can find a treatment that holds back the cancer for long enough to allow her to see the kids grow up. I need to believe it too, and that by then some genius in a lab somewhere will have found a way to get rid of it all together. We need to put all of our energy into holding on, not planning for a future I can’t bear to contemplate, and so I take the most cowardly way out possible and remove myself from the situation.

‘I’ll go and get us both a coffee.’ I don’t wait for her to answer, and when she calls out to me as I walk away, I pretend not to hear, catching the eye of the woman who was knitting instead. She shakes her head, and I can’t tell whether she feels sorry for me, or thinks I’m the biggest idiot alive, but I don’t care either way. The only person whose opinion matters to me is Lou, and I suspect that right now she doesn’t like me very much. I knew cancer was toxic, spreading with an indiscriminate cruelty and poisoning everything it comes into contact with. But I had no idea just how widespread that contamination could become, or that it would do its best to poison the relationship between me and my wife when we should be making the most of every second we have together. By the time I reach the coffee machine the rage that’s been threatening to boil over suddenly explodes and I punch the wall next to it so hard, I can hear the crack as the bones of my hand make contact with the rock-hard surface. And the weird thing is that I’m grateful for the physical pain, because just for a moment it relieves the emotional torture, but I know it won’t last. There’s nothing I can do to stop it coming back and there’s nothing I can do to stop my children from eventually losing their mum either, or to stop me from losing the only woman I’ve ever loved. And the thought makes me want to punch the wall again and again.