How a sponge bath fantasy went wrong.
Finding Cancer’s Hidden Gifts
The opportunity presented itself to give an incredibly beautiful woman a sponge bath. The woman was my wife, Alicia, whom I’m madly in love with and insanely attracted to, so things were looking up for me.
I’ve been waiting to give my wife a sponge bath our whole relationship. The “fun” time in our relationship is definitely fun. But something about a sponge bath just, well, you know. I got my shot. And like Wayne Gretzky (sorry, I don’t know current hockey stars), I took it. Let’s just say while I “scored,” reality veered drastically away from my fantasy’s script.
I was cued up in front of the goal to take my shot because my wife has cancer. Hairy Cell Leukemia (HCL), to be precise. Going off script is frustrating in the moment, but what we’ve learned in dealing with cancer is that within the most brutal moments, during the unexpected situations we find ourselves in, are little hidden gifts we will jealously guard forever.
As we grow more tired during this fight, as she gets weaker due to chemotherapy, as we watch each other sacrifice on this journey, our relationship is growing stronger in a way I feel only cancer couples can understand.
Back to the sponge bath. We were on a weekend getaway, and Alicia couldn’t bathe herself because she just had a PICC line inserted in her arm. This contraption allows the cancer docs to mainline chemo drugs into her veins whenever they need. In our haste to get on the road, we left behind the waterproof sleeve that would protect the PICC line from getting wet and risking infection.
That’s where I come in. Armed with the hotel plastic laundry bag to cover Alicia’s arm, I was there to get a job done. Her job was to hold the bag; my job was to scrub-a-dub-dub. To spice up the affair, we had eight minutes to bathe her, get her dressed, and us out the door to catch a shuttle to an event. But that’s not all. The shower in our 2-star Carmel hotel was big enough for half a person. The sponge? Well, there was no sponge. Or body wash. We had a bone-dry disc called a “moisturizing bar.”
It all seemed like God’s idea of a gameshow. Double Dare, the Cancer edition. But we were determined to beat the clock and get clean doing it.
Using a variety of contortionist joint bends, I managed to get the bone-disc wet and get a rather nice lather on Alicia’s legs, arms, and stomach. I even stretched up to her shoulders, standing on one foot while putting my other foot on the shower wall for support. I was quite proud of myself.
“Babe! You totally missed all the important parts!” she exclaimed.
“What do you mean? I got you all soapy,” I said in honest shock.
She quickly snatched the bone disc from my hands and began to wash the “important parts.”
“Well…come on. I mean, I didn’t want to make it weird or anything. I’m trying to take this seriously and not be creepy,” I explained. The truth is, any other time, I would have forgotten she had arms and legs (well, maybe not the legs).
I was immersed in my “caregiver” role. For the first time since her diagnosis, I treated Alicia more like a patient than my best friend and wife. I was more clinical than goofy, more reserved than at ease. I was afraid to do it “wrong” because the entire situation was so heavy. In short, I failed. At least in my mind.
She dried off. I helped. And then she gave me her most loving “you’re an idiot” look. That’s all I needed. We laughed about the absurdity of the whole scenario and my half-assed attempt at a sponge bath, complete with me possessing zero game.
That evening we shared our experience with friends. We made fun of ourselves. We really made fun of me. A lot. The frustration and tension of being in the position to have to shower with a plastic bag to cover up her IV chemo-highway melted away.
This is the thing we’re learning about living with cancer. We wouldn’t wish cancer upon anyone. At the same time, however, that sneaky bastard has a way of weaving things into your life that are irreplaceable. In that awkward, non-sexy nude scene in our life, Alicia and I found a moment that is decidedly ours, forever. A moment that was a brilliant reminder of why we’re best friends, why we’re in love, and just how committed we are to one another. This moment was created solely because she was gearing up to kick HCL’s ass.
There are a plethora of complaints we can make because of cancer. But we would be fools to miss what’s in front of our eyes. As we grow more tired during this fight, as she gets weaker due to chemotherapy, as we watch each other sacrifice on this journey, our relationship is growing stronger in a way I feel only cancer couples can understand.
If Alicia didn’t have cancer, that moment would’ve been nothing more than a rushed shower in a mediocre hotel. Not exciting. Not memorable. And certainly not an opportunity to meaningfully strengthen our relationship.
In our house, we don’t say, “you got this.” Ever. We say, “We got this.” While it’s easy to say, we now know that it’s true. As we shout F#ck Cancer together, however, we lock eyes and know we are thankful for cancer’s unintended gifts. We can do that because, in fact, we got this.
In all seriousness though, I am claiming a rain check on that sponge bath. Redemption is out there. And I’m sticking around to cash in that marker.
