My friend Rachel's husband died yesterday in the small, dark hours before dawn. She is only 33. Her husband Brian was 41. They were married not even six years. Their son Lucas, who they call Luke, is about three.
She is a friend, but I never actually met Brian. Rachel is the daughter of José, who I dated for about a dozen years, mostly during the '90s.
Rachel was about nine when I first met her. Our August birthdays are one day apart, and we are both typical Leos, but in our different, generationally-appropriate ways.
I saw her a couple of times during my time with her dad, but knew her mainly through his words, his memories of her as a toddler: her straight, black hair hanging down to her 'culito'—his Spanish term for her baby bottom; or, after his divorce, Rachel standing at the screen door, crying her eyes out, watching him walk away after a visit. He said those moments killed him.
In 1997, before my son's wedding, I wanted a make-over and went to see Rachel at Merle Norman's.
José and I broke up the next year, but stayed in touch. Rachel knew that, and she called me in 2003 when her dad was hospitalized in a coma. She told me he might not make it. I immediately drove the hundred miles to sit with him. He didn't move; but, for one last time, I held his hand; told him how much I still loved him; that I knew how much he loved me, too; and that it was okay to let go and find peace.
He, too, died later that evening, in the small, dark hours before dawn.
I lost track of Rachel for awhile, but somehow found her again. Maybe it was Facebook. I can't remember. Rachel posted her life on Facebook, telling when Brian's cancer was treated, went into remission, or resurfaced. Her friends rallied around her.
I baked a carrot cake for them, coincidentally Brian's favorite. Rachel was to meet me to pick it up, but sent her sister instead. Brian had taken sick very suddenly and had to be rushed to the hospital.
At another time, we were to meet for lunch. After waiting awhile, I called her. Oh, no, you have the right date and time, she told me through her tears; then apologized because she was at the hospital with Brian. He had again taken a sudden turn for the worst.
In 2011, we got together for dinner and talked long about her situation, and also about José, laughing and sharing stories. She knew he was no saint, but we agreed that we loved him dearly and we knew how much he loved us in return.
In early 2012, Brian was admitted to the hospice on an urgent basis, something that would recur several times before he passed. Rachel came to my place that first time, in tears over his suffering, her heart breaking for fear of losing the love of her life, about Luke losing his dad, about Brian's own sorrow for not being there for Luke as he grows up, and about her fears of coping afterwards. So much for one to take on...at any age.
A, B, C, C, C, the Big C, Cancer, Cancer, Cancer. That's what took Brian yesterday. That's what took my ex's wife of 20 years in 2009. What took my dad in 1990. And my mom in 1982. And friends. And classmates.
On Facebook, I see so many posts of anti-cancer images and slogans, with entreaties for all of us to 'like' and 'share' them "if you are against cancer." If? Are you serious?
A, B, C, C, C, ... C me die. C me die. C me die....
