The Museum Visit
Your wife led us to you through the white picket fence and past your daughter’s house with two tight braids jumping up and down in the window, impatiently waiting to be taken to school. We walked across the green carpet of your garden, filled with the roses you said you wish you could have shown us yourself if you had the strength. She led us into your living room, a bright, open space, where you sat in your favorite armchair overlooking miles of farmland.
Your house was a museum, displaying the life that lived and breathed around you: every cup of unfinished tea found here and there, mostly gone cold while stumbling to grab your medication or something else you may need; every item of abandoned clothing: the pink cardigan that your wife liked to wear in the house thrown over a chair; a hat to protect your skin, sensitive after chemotherapy even in the weak English sun; a pair of slippers, forgotten under the sofa and half-eaten by your mischievous dogs.
Every picture frame showing you, your children and their children. You and your wife, young and grinning, your hand lovingly draped around her slender waist, in black and white. Your youngest in diapers grabbing your dog’s tail with her chubby little fingers. Your other daughter, beautiful in a white dress, beaming at the love of her life. Your fidgety grandchildren, uncomfortable in awkwardly fitting uniforms, with faces full of acne and braces. All of you on holiday: pink, warm and content from too many hours on the beach and maybe too much wine.
It all radiated a life that was so much larger than you: a frail and small man in a dressing gown three sizes too big, which you apologized for. You were too out of breath that morning to dress yourself in your usual crisply ironed shirt and chinos.
I wondered what would happen to all this life when it would have to bear the weight of the news. Would it crumble like the shortbread your wife offered us on the china she saved for guests? Or would it hold itself together like your older daughter, an ER doctor you joked wouldn’t shed a tear at your funeral?
I found out soon enough. We pushed aside the polite small talk and how-are-you’s and started delving more into your life. You told us about how you missed your wife’s shepherd’s pie now that you had no appetite, or ability to swallow; about how you couldn’t walk a few steps without feeling like you were about to take your last breath. You admitted that you feared the nights the most. Your wife nodded along but didn’t complain. We asked her how she was really doing and counted the circles under her eyes – four hours of sleep every night.
We said we had to talk about the future and what your options were. Not a pleasant topic, but one we have to discuss, so you can have some choice in the matter. Everyone tensed in their seats; bodies suddenly alert and rigid, ready to take the impact of any words we might throw in their direction: ‘disease progression,’ ‘incurable,’ ‘end of life plans.’ I wish we could have taken those words with us when we left, but they were thick and unforgiving. They crept out and stayed, settling into the dusty stack of magazines piled on the coffee table and making themselves at home in your fruit bowl.
One of your daughters coughed, got up and excused herself. She needed to be somewhere, but kissed you goodbye gently on the forehead, eyes brimming with tears. Soon, we had to leave too. You struggled to stand, your arms and legs shaking with imbalance and emotion, much to the protests of your wife and other daughter. You persisted anyway, with the spirit of a man who has spent decades selflessly carrying his family on his back. Now you could hardly carry yourself. You shook our hands, thanked us for coming, and wished us luck. I wished the same for you.
As we walked out through the front door, I felt your wife tap my shoulder. In one breath, she whispered, “How long?” In another we said, “Weeks.” Now that you couldn’t see her anymore, standing on your front step, she finally let herself cry.
Outside, the silence was heavy. I had to remind myself that inside, there was a life well lived and heavy with love.