Dumbfounded! Speechless! Me? This cannot truly be happening. I’m twenty-eight years old, I have a lifetime ahead of me. I heard the words. They were spoken without a hitch. We have the big C. We have stage 4 big C. Nope, there is a misunderstanding. The big C happens to other people. I want answers. Who read the results wrong? Goddamn it, how can we have the big C?
The overwhelming news produces a rapid chain reaction within my synapses, which just won’t stop firing. I sit, holding Marshall’s hand tightly, as the doctor drones on reading MRIs, X-rays, body scans, blood results, tissue samples, fucking-who-knows-what-the-fuck samples. My brain, frozen in time, on the dirty word ‘cancer’ and unable to process the plethora of information being shoved in our direction. All my brain translates is horse shit, horse shit, and more horse shit. No matter what research the doctor references, I can't get a handle on that ugly noun—cancer.
Somewhere within the stark reality of the moment, Doctor Trihn entered Marshall’s sterile hospital room, standing next to his stone-cold bed, cursing that dirty word, and the raw truth of the diagnosis.
My logical brain understands my job: my job as a wife; my duty as an equal partner. The responsibility clearly defined in our vows, spoken in our vows, and expressed in front of God and everyone we loved. The declarations binding us together for eternity. I vowed to Marshall my undying support through sickness and health, until death do us part. Apparently, my words appeared superficial at this moment, unheeded and meaningless.
I stand still, paralyzed. I had always been the one held and supported emotionally by the man just handed his death sentence. Me, the weak link in our never-ending circle of commitment.
Anger and denial rear their ugly heads as soon as the shock of the dirty little C word is spilled out before us. The slow-motion replay won’t stop repeating its endless nagging loop inside my head and I can’t keep my decorum. The shrillness of my voice echoes out in the cold hospital room door as I firmly inform highly-educated oncologists they know nothing.
How could they possibly be correct? It was just stomach pains. Nothing more. I need them to retract this death sentence.
Who is so cruel they toy with innocent, decent people? Maybe I can hire a lawyer to screw up their lives as much as they’ve screwed with mine? People like Marshall and I, people who give and provide for others, healthy young people, we don’t get death sentences. We don’t have time for them. We are good people, how is this happening?
Nurse Betty, in her poodle-riddled scrubs and crocs, quietly enters the room with one of those white pill cups. I watch her setting the tray down on the mobile vanity as she reaches for the buttons on Marshall’s IV pump. The veins in his neck are distinctly visible and the tenseness of his jaw tells me he is fighting with himself to keep control. She pulls a syringe off the tray and taps the barrel several times, bringing all the bubbles up towards the needle while slowly squeezing the flange and releasing the unwanted trapped air.
“Marshall, after I clean the line, I’ve got an anti-anxiety drug to help you begin managing the news. Mrs. Lee, this pill here is for you.” She nudges the pill cup in my direction. “Also anti-anxiety. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt the pregnancy, you’re far enough along.”
I sit, unresponsive because my brain slows, taking a long time interpreting her words. But she keeps a steady pace with her spiel. “What may cause damage to you, or your fetuses, is the shock you are experiencing.”
What the fuck does she know about my artichoke-sized fetuses? Speaking of choking something, I’d love to choke these doctors right now myself.
I don’t have it in me to ask questions. I merely watch her gently slide the overbed table in my direction, clean the IV line for my husband, and ready it for the injection. I’m stiff, still hanging on with one hand to the grip of our intertwined hands.
“Come on now,” she entices, “we need you both in a place where the doctors can calmly discuss the protocols available and the action plan they’ve already worked up.” She continues with the gentle nudges on the tray.
My eyes stare at the stark contrast between the stainless steel and the not so innocent disposable pill cup. My free hand shakes, leaving the comfort of my round, swollen belly. My fingers curl around the edges of the corrugated white cup as it crinkles under my grasp. Something stokes the fire within my brain, it screams loud and clear in my ears. I return the pill cup to the cold metal tray. Clearing my throat, swallowing slowly letting out a huge sigh, I say with conviction, “No, I’m fine. Seriously, I’d rather be of sound mind while we get all the news. Marsh, one of us needs to be clear headed…”
My voice trails off and the twin artichokes, baking in my womb, decide to wake up and play pinball on my rib cage. Shifting uncomfortably in my seat, Marshall gives me one more tight hand squeeze as a silent tear falls down his cheek. We’ve had a deep connection since the first time we both laid eyes on one another, and I know he won’t argue about my refusal to ingest the little mind-numbing capsule. He knows I’m here for him, for our daughter, and our soon to be identical twin boys. I’m also figuring out a way to tell my stepchildren. They’ve accepted me as a mom, a confidant, a friend, not just their dad’s wife, and this is going to be a rough road ahead. My chin quivers, recognizing he’s staying strong for me, and I’m failing him.
“Hey, are you doing all right? Can I get you another pillow or blanket?” Small talk is not my forte, but the silence building between Marshall and I after Nurse Drug Pusher left only enhances my building anxiety.
“No, I’m just going to shut my eyes for a bit before Dr. Trihn comes back. I’m happy if you stay put and try to relax.” He reaches over to regain control of my hand once more while adjusting his bed.
“You know, I’m here to handle whatever comes our way,” I remind him, hoping he’ll let me help. We’re in this together, after all. “I can manage everything. I just need to understand what we can do to beat this.”
“Don't you worry your pretty little head about any of it,” he tongues the words like I am a child. “I’ve told you before and I mean it, I’ll take care of you forever and all you need to do is keep yourself together and manage our kids. It’s my job to worry, not yours. Oh, and thank you for not drugging our children. I would have stopped you from taking those pills.”
I sit silent. There is no need to respond. He’s made up his mind and it’s my job to follow him. He’s always been so self-assured and never once has he faltered from his directives. Watching him fade off to sleep I’m overcome with the memories of our budding relationship…
We met while in my senior year of college. I was twenty-one, and a fourth-year student at UC-Irvine, working towards my Bachelor of Arts degree in design and business. Working my way through school, I was determined to reach my goals. I knew I wanted to create and build new products. Things like the perfect cell phone holder or maybe the next new wetsuit, which would protect surfers from being bait in the ocean. I could sketch designs and had so many ideas rolling around my head. My vision placed me somewhere in the business world creating widgets which made people’s lives easier.
Money had always been tight for my parents. They were teenage parents, having me when they were only seventeen. My dad loved my mom to pieces and worked a million hours in an auto shop, while my mom completed her high school diploma courses and applied to college. Together, they made everything work, but between my dad’s mechanic training courses, mom’s student loans, and caring for me, they hadn’t built a strong nest egg. It didn’t help we lived in one of the most expensive rent regions in Southern California. Living near Dana Point, a well sought-after coastal city, proved very difficult on the wallet. But Dad always loved surfing, so they refused to move inland to save money.
Working as a hostess, climbing my way up the ladder into a full-fledged waitress at an upscale restaurant and bar, certainly offered perks. I made plenty in tips, thanks to the rich South Orange County beach-dwelling clientele and my sweet-talking table-side manner, which helped with menu upsells since I knew the ins and outs of the menu for all the snobby foodies. My willingness to learn all the ins and outs of the restaurant, also had gave me pick of the hours, fitting them perfectly into my schedule.
Ambrosia, a privately-owned restaurant, became a second home to me. Marcus, the owner and amazing self-made man along with his lovely wife, Rochelle, took me under their wing. The two of them supported my education and allowed me to adjust my schedule to fit my needs. Marcus and Rochelle were close in age with my parents, so through college, I had four parents watching over me, cheering me on, and supporting my dreams.
One particular fall Monday evening, a group of well-dressed businessmen were seated in my station. In their expensive suits, ties, and cufflinks they kept me hopping all night. Immersed in some huge business deal, I kept the food and drinks flowing, while these men pored over documents and took notes. I wasn’t sure what they were kibitzing over, but by the end of their four-hour stint, I was left with a phone number, a five hundred-dollar tip, and instructions to call the number when my shift was over. Of course, I shoved the number deep in my pocket and forgot about it for several days.
The following Friday evening, Rochelle asked me to pick up a bar shift because they expected a big crowd in to cheer on the Angels. Game two of the American League Division Series would play out that night. We usually ran two bartenders on Fridays and four wait staff just to service the bar on weekend nights. One of my first customers, a handsome man in dark jeans, gray heather athletic-cut polo, and deck shoes, kept me quite busy. He started out with a martini, dry, two olives, and an onion. He ordered the Ahi Tuna salad, and then sat at his small bar table drinking water for my entire shift. Every time I tended to his needs he was extremely polite, but his eyes followed me all over my circular pattern of my assigned tables. My coworker, Cassy, kept telling me how this man’s drooling on the table became worse and worse every time I’d turn around. It wasn’t until the end of the evening I figured out who the mystery man was and why he continued showing an interest in me.
Cashing out his bill, I placed the check in its black server book and sauntered over to him with the whopping thirty-eight dollar check. This was not the first time I’d had customers take up a busy Friday table all evening with very little tip potential on my return. However, it irked me he’d engaged in little conversation and followed me around all night with his laser-beam gaze. When I placed the black leather folder in front of him he cleared his throat and said, “Jenna, I appreciate your service again tonight. You work hard. I admire the trait.” His deep brown eyes drew me into his personal space. “You exude a wonderful attitude”—his hand drifted over his caramel GQ-styled hair—“and you ignored my phone number from Monday night.” As his baritone voice washed over me, my eyes popped open wide when it dawned on me, this was Mr. Five Hundred Dollars. “I’m Marshall, Marshall Lee by the way.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t ignoring you, Mr. Lee.”
“Please, call me Marshall.”
“I’ve—umm.” I shifted back and forth on my heels, my weakened knees buckling a little. “I’m Jenna.” What a dipshit, he already used your name.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, very smoothly. His confidence both intimidated and excited me. “I know this may be an odd question, but tell me, Jenna, where do you see yourself in the next few years?”
It was an odd question but I felt compelled to answer. “Umm, well—I’m in school and working almost full time. I hope to someday be involved with creating new things, ideas, you know, things that make life easier.”
“What are you doing when you finish cleaning up?” He sat upright, extremely confident and a little cocky.
His gravitational force was simply too strong for me to ignore. I found myself trying to process exactly why my heart immediately wanted to know this stranger and his brand of danger. There was something forceful but tempered about him; it played nicely into his commanding charm and sophistication. His chocolate eyes and directness drew me in unlike anything I’d ever experienced. His voice made me follow his lead and divulge every small facet of my life.
“Uh, I was headed home, to my parents’. I’m saving up to move out right after I graduate in June.”
“Well, how about you call Mom and Dad and let them know you’ll be staying with a friend tonight? I’m in need of some coffee and good company. What do ya say?” He was still smooth as could be while I was wondering if this was such a good idea. I’d never left with a customer before and an older man to boot.
“Sure, give me your address I’ll meet you there when I finish.” I didn’t fully understand this moth-to-light attraction but it felt so right. I couldn’t stop myself.
“Only this time will I allow you to drive yourself.”
I raised a brow his direction. “Oh—interesting—you think so?” I returned, teasing instead of reprimanding.
“I’ll make sure you see things my way. I’ll take care of you, I promise.” With a wink, he shoved a business card in my hand, pulled out a one hundred-dollar bill, and told me not to keep him waiting too long.
I arrived at Marshall’s place just after midnight and we talked through the sunrise. He lived in a little house north of Dana Point.
“I’m glad you came,” he said, reaching for my jacket and purse.
“Yeah, I’m not sure what I’m doing here,” I admitted, “but something about you has me intrigued.”
“Likewise. I watched you the other night and knew I needed to have you.”
Surprised, I looked at him. “Really, have me?”
“Yes, you’re quite breathtaking,” he said simply, so matter-of-fact like what he said would always be correct. “You work hard. I already told you these are things I admire.”
“Well, I’m flattered,” I said, meaningfully. It was fascinating, his absolute certainty. My whole life, I’d never felt an intensity like his. Wide eyed, I moved around, taking in his home to gain some sense of perspective and formulate an idea about the character of this man. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“It’s temporary, I’m looking to find a place where I can start over. My wife and I divorced three years ago. Amicably, but I’ve been waiting for something and now I think I’ve found it.” His hand brushed over mine and the heat of my blushing radiated off my cheeks. “You’re exquisite, tell me more about this degree and your vision?”
I hadn’t once looked to see if he wore a ring or not. I felt chosen, and I knew he was a force of nature I wouldn’t be able to resist. Truthfully, I didn’t want to. We sat in the living room, and I went on to explain my future goals of design and business. He listened patiently and I loved how he absorbed everything I had to say. Unlike guys my own age, he seemed understanding of all my big ideas and dreams. This support is what attracted me to him and fueled my desire to be near him.
In turn, I learned he and his ex-wife married right out of college and were pregnant immediately. He was the father of a ten-year-old son and six-year-old daughter. He and his ex-wife shared fifty-fifty custody. He coached his son’s Little League team and attended every ballet recital of his daughter’s. His ex-wife already had a new beau and impending vows of marriage only a few months away.
“How is it knowing your ex will be with someone else?”
He hesitated.
“I’m sorry was that too much to ask?”
“No, not at all. Sonya and I have an understanding.” He chose his words carefully. “I’m happy she found someone. I’m sure she’ll feel the same for me.”
“So, Mr. Lee, you know what I want to do with my life, I want to know what you do besides being a father? I mean, you and your business partners looked very focused the other night.”
“I’m an investment consultant,” he replied, his eyes never leaving my face. “I handle many large accounts, mostly high-profile folks so I can't say much about the nature of their business, but not for you to worry about.”
“Wow, sounds mysterious and interesting,” I said conversationally. “Where are most of your clients from?”
Marshall’s brow quirked just slightly. “They’re from all around the world. But let’s focus on you. I asked you before, where do you see yourself?”
I’d sensed his resistance to the topic of his business but didn’t push the matter. His fixated interest in me was novel, so I answered his questions. “I hope I find something before I graduate. I’d love to be in a secure position before June.”
He considered me for a second. “I’ve got quite a few connections, and I’m sure I can direct you to a job which will suit your dreams.”
“Well, aren't you sweet.”
“Don't worry, I think you’ve got a place here with me and I’ll keep you well taken care of. You may not know it yet, but you’re meant to be here, with me.”
He never cringed when he learned I was ten years younger than him. He told me I’d be better off moving in with him and he’d help me through my last semester of school. I was shocked, but still felt this intense need to be with him. It never dawned on me how fast this escalated with Marshall. All I knew was my soul needed him and no matter what he said, I’d do it. This was my fairy tale, my happily-ever-after. Marshall and I were a strong team from day one. We opened our hearts and souls to one another, creating a beautiful life together over the last nearly eight years—
The squeaky sound of the rubber-soled shoes shuffling in the hallway transports me back to the here and now. We live in one of the safest cities in the nation, our neighborhood full of well to do entrepreneurs who can buy themselves just about anything they want. Our city law enforcement’s biggest worry is who has the best doughnuts, but here I sit, being told my husband houses one of the deadliest forms of disease.
How in the hell does he have cancer? Pancreatic stage four, goddamn cancer at the age of thirty-eight.
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