She and I
Cancer is short on upsides, but I’ve found one: I’m closer than ever to the woman I love.
We went out for coffee this morning. There’s a coffee truck in our town square and you can sit on the top, watching people while you sip. We’re not used to this much spare time. She’s on sick leave and I’m on gardening leave, leading into redundancy. We laughed at our combined income during the time we took to drink our coffees. About £50 we thought. We had different plans for the rest of the day, and when we parted we played it as the end of a first date, swapping numbers and promising to call.
We’re totally at ease with each other, and I’m happy in her company. 16 years ago, in the early weeks and months of our relationship, I remember worrying that I didn’t really understand her. Later on I realised that getting to know someone is part of the adventure – provided you’re genuinely interested in and like that person. I found her fascinating. There’s still mystery there though: times when I’m surprised by an opinion, or her reaction to something, or her reaction to me.
She withholds just enough from me that I stay in pursuit. It began on the day we met. We went for a team dinner to celebrate the end of a conference we’d put on. With a dozen people around the table I spent most of the night talking to her, this beautiful lady with huge brown eyes and a French accent. I spoke what I thought was reasonable French, and tried to show off, while she kept flipping back to English. At the end of the night I asked for her number and she asked “why?” with a twinkle.
A few times over the years I’ve been exasperated that she keeps things in reserve. She has an interior life – thoughts, feelings, metaphorical places she goes – to which I’m not invited. Where I’m an open book, she’s… not. Some degree of mystery is part of her deal. That can upset me in the moment, but I’m sure is healthy in the long term.
She’s not my best friend. I’ve always hated that notion. Surely romantic relationships should have more dynamism, more risk, more of a quest than you could ever have with a best friend. And let’s be indelicate, who wants to have sex with their best friend?
We got her breast cancer diagnosis on the 14th of July. Le quatorze juillet, Bastille Day, an insult to a proudly French woman. It immediately brought us closer together, as we became each other’s support, circling our wagons. At the moment they said “it’s cancer” I reached out to her, holding her hand in mine, and I’ve rarely let go since. On the first night I wondered how either of us could possibly sleep, but we held each other in bed and I knew this was powerful. The world felt better, our fight more winnable, while we stayed in that embrace. We slept in the end, and every night since.
I’ve always known I married the right woman, and certainly didn’t need cancer to prove it, but it’s been lovely to have my love for this woman redrawn. I have times where the fear overtakes me, but not today. The two of us, joined together and with the best of modern medicine, will drive this bastard illness from her body. Then we’ll go back to our lives, to each other, and to all the places our love takes us.
