Chapter 4 - The Man I Had Become
Chemotherapy began at nine the next morning.
The medicine entered Emily’s vein through a clear tube.
It looked too ordinary to be something powerful enough to destroy cells inside her body.
Dr. Shah explained every medication, every risk, and every number they would monitor.
Emily listened carefully.
I wrote everything down.
“You don’t need to do that,” she said.
“I forget things when I’m scared.”
“You never used to admit when you were scared.”
“I’m trying something new.”
The first day was not dramatic.
Emily watched television.
She ate three crackers.
I answered work emails from the chair beside her bed.
That evening, she became nauseated.
By midnight, she was vomiting into a plastic basin while a nurse held her shoulders.
I stood nearby feeling useless.
When the nurse left, I wiped Emily’s face with a damp cloth.
“You can go home,” she whispered.
“I’m staying.”
“There’s nowhere to sleep.”
“I have the chair.”
“You hate hospital chairs.”
“I hate folding chairs too. Apparently, I’ve built a life around terrible furniture.”
A faint smile moved across her face.
It disappeared quickly, but I saw it.
On the third day, her hair began falling out.
She found several strands on her pillow and stared at them for a long time.
“I thought they said it might take longer.”
“Do you want me to call the nurse?”
“No.”
“Do you want Nora?”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
Emily touched the short hair near her temple.
“I want to stop finding pieces of myself on the pillow.”
A nurse brought clippers.
Emily asked everyone to leave except me.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“No.”
She sat in a chair near the bathroom.
I draped a towel around her shoulders.
My hands shook as I turned on the clippers.
The buzzing filled the room.
“Do you remember when I cut your hair?” she asked.
“Before David’s wedding.”
“You moved.”
“You cut a hole above my ear.”
“You wore a hat for two weeks.”
“I told everyone it was a style choice.”
She smiled.
Then the first section of hair fell into her lap.
Her smile broke.
I turned off the clippers.
“We can stop.”
“No.”
“We have time.”
“No, Michael. Finish it.”
Tears slid down her face as I carefully moved the clippers over her scalp.
I wanted to tell her she was beautiful.
It would have sounded like something people said because they were frightened of silence.
So I said the truth.
“I’m sorry this is happening.”
She closed her eyes.
“Me too.”
When I finished, she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror.
For a few seconds, she did not react.
Then she touched the shape of her head.
“I look sick.”
“You are sick.”
She looked at me sharply.
I continued.
“But you are still Emily.”
Something in her expression softened.
Nora brought scarves the following day.
David visited after being discharged from surgery. He moved slowly and carried a small bouquet purchased from the hospital gift shop.
“You look terrible,” he told Emily.
“So do you,” she replied.
“That’s the spirit.”
David had known both of us since before the wedding.
He did not mention the divorce.
He sat near the window and talked about his surgery, his terrible hospital food, and the nurse who kept calling him Daniel.
For twenty minutes, Emily laughed like herself.
After she fell asleep, David and I walked to the cafeteria.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Helping.”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
I looked toward the coffee machine.
“I love her.”
“You loved her in April.”
“I know.”
“Then love was not the problem.”
I stared at him.
David opened a packet of sugar.
“You avoid anything you cannot fix. Emily’s grief could not be fixed. Your grief could not be fixed. So you found a problem with a clear solution.”
“The marriage.”
“The marriage was not the problem. It was where the problem lived.”
I wanted to argue.
Instead, I looked at the coffee.
“I abandoned her.”
“Yes.”
His honesty hurt.
“You’re supposed to be my best friend.”
“That’s why I’m not telling you this is romantic.”
“I don’t think it is.”
“You found your sick ex-wife in a hospital and decided you would become the man she always needed. That story can feel heroic if you’re not careful.”
I said nothing.
“Do not use her illness to skip the work,” David continued. “Sitting beside her now does not erase the nights you stayed at the office.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I’m starting to.”
When I returned upstairs, Emily was awake.
“My landlord called,” she said.
“What happened?”
“The rent payment failed.”
“I’ll cover it.”
“No.”
“Emily.”
“I said no.”
“You cannot lose your apartment while you’re in the hospital.”
“I have savings.”
“How much?”
“That is not your business.”
She was right.
I had lost the right to ask.
“Let Nora help you arrange payment,” I said.
“She already paid last month.”
I closed my eyes.
Emily’s medical appointments had reduced her work hours. Her employer had placed her on unpaid leave. She had used most of the settlement money from our divorce on tests and insurance premiums.
Meanwhile, I had bought a new television because my apartment felt empty.
“Let me lend it to you.”
“I don’t want debt between us.”
“Then let me pay what I still owe.”
“You do not owe me rent.”
“I owe you half the furniture, half the savings we spent on legal fees, and five years of treating the things you did at home like they appeared by magic.”
“That is guilt talking.”
“Yes.”
“Guilt is unreliable.”
“Then set the terms.”
She looked at me.
“What?”
“Write an agreement. Call it a loan. Add interest. Let Nora hold the money. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
“You are not buying forgiveness.”
“I know.”
“You are not buying access to my doctors.”
“I know.”
“You are not buying a second chance.”
“I know.”
Her eyes filled.
“Then why?”
“Because you should have enough money to decide what you want without fear deciding for you.”
That answer seemed to reach her.
She agreed to let Nora manage a temporary loan for rent and insurance.
I contacted the attorney who handled our divorce and requested a written agreement.
Then I sold the television.
It did not matter financially.
The money covered less than one month of her treatment costs.
But when I carried it out of my apartment, I understood something.
For months, I had been filling empty spaces with objects because objects never asked me to explain myself.
The hospital forced me to sit in the emptiness.
On the eighth day, Emily developed a fever.
Nurses entered wearing protective equipment.
Blood cultures were taken.
Antibiotics were started.
I stood outside the room while they worked.
Dr. Shah explained that Emily’s immune system had become dangerously weak.
“She may become much sicker before she improves.”
I looked through the glass.
Emily was shivering beneath two blankets.
“How long?”
“We cannot predict that.”
The words terrified me.
There was no schedule.
No task list that guaranteed the right result.
No promise that effort would save her.
I entered the room after the nurses finished.
Emily opened her eyes.
“You should go,” she whispered. “You’ll get sick.”
“I’m wearing a mask.”
“You have work tomorrow.”
“I took leave.”
“How much?”
“As much as they’ll give me.”
“And after that?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
She stared at me.
“The first day is over,” I said.
May you like
Her eyes closed again.
“I noticed.”
