Malignant Devotion

           The once ambitious hope that our relationship would last forever began to crumble as our family doctor explained Carrie’s limited options going forward. After five short years of marriage, having never to consider a life apart from one another, that ominous day marked the beginning of the end. Granted the future state of our life together was not at the forefront of either of our minds as Dr. Nader reluctantly divulged a nauseatingly short timeline as her aggressive disease would progress, I now realize that I should’ve started bracing myself for the fast fall as we plummeted towards the dreaded end.

            Superfluously listening to the medical implications of the jargon Dr. Nader used to describe Carrie’s terminal illness, I understood more from his stern facial expression than his unnecessary, multisyllabic words. As the medical professional involuntarily marched my wife down death row, he escorted her to the understanding that she would soon die from a cancerous tumor growing in her small intestine. Turning a blind eye to our overt despair and frail demeanor, he assured us both that the illness would act quickly- attacking her entire being, eventually stripping her of her last labored breath. Despite the conviction in the doctor’s voice and my faith in his ability to properly diagnose patient, I was unwilling to wrap my mind around the surreal news that Carrie would soon be gone. The idea that we would not grow old together was incomprehensible; being coerced into separation had never crossed my naïve mind.

             As I tried to compose myself long enough to comfort Carrie until I could break down out of sight, I choked on the suffocating lump in my throat and then turned to look into my wife’s misty hazel eyes. The sight of her trying her very best to withhold any sign of self-pity, it was apparent that her focus was on sparing my feelings as well. Fearing the helpless expression on Carrie’s pale, frightened face, I looked away from her in hope that Dr. Nader would discover a forgotten cure or treatment. If such a cure or treatment existed, there would be hope of returning the heart-warming, pink glow to Carrie’s usual rosy cheeks. Rushing through the stages of grief like a sprinter galloping towards a finish line located on the edge of a deadly cliff, I wasted little time bargaining with the assumed omnipotent doctor. Offering my own small intestine to replace Carrie’s afflicted one, he reminded me that I was not an ideal candidate due to an array of factors.  

            Having forgotten that Dr. Nader had been both Carrie’s and my doctor, he reminded me of the extensive knowledge he had of my medical history with a nonverbal cue, shifting his eyes side to side. As the doctor tried to respect my confidentiality with silence, Carrie interjected by considerately saying, “It’s fine, Ryan. Please don’t think it’s your responsibility to fix me.” As kind hearted as her suggestion was, it was impossible for me to prevent the malicious attack of self-loathing from bombarding my defenseless conscience. Although I was pragmatic enough to understand that I had not been the cause of Carrie’s life-threatening disease, a rush of guilt cascaded from the knowledge that I could have helped her if I had made healthier life choices earlier in young adulthood.

           Although I had turned my life around shortly before meeting Carrie, the years preceding our relationship were shameful ones. Fueled by alcohol, promiscuity, and the occasional illicit drug use, memories of my early twenties are shaded by superficial hedonism. Having made what felt like a never-ending string of poor choices, I finally noticed that I had fallen into a self-destructive pattern, disregarding any ambition of bringing meaning to my life through commitment, dedication, and discipline. As I began to notice that my weekends were growing longer, while my substance budget was outweighing necessities like food and rent, I picked the perfect time to subdue my escalating deviance. Whether it was opportune timing or a result of the physical discomfort I had been feeling, the day I decided to kick my many habits, I admitted myself in the hospital after experiencing some troubling symptoms. However familiar the symptoms were after a week of binge drinking- fatigue in particular- they persisted, causing alarm. Justifiably concerned, it turned out that my excessive lifestyle had caught up with me, permanently damaging my liver in the process.

          At the risk of sounding self-indulgent as I ruminated on my shameful past while Carrie processed the traumatic news that had just been presented, I was mortified to know that my self-inflicted organ damage had prevented Carrie from revitalizing her own distressed organ. Moreover, the fact that Carrie had treated her body with the respect and care any human capable of critical thinking should, seemed unjust. Extending my hand towards Carrie while I continued to infer blame for her shortened lifespan, I held her quivering hand and rubbed my thumb over her clammy palm until she pulled away. Initially assuming that my outreach had upset her, I came to realize that she was experiencing a mild panic attack as she closed her eyes and began to breathe as she counted each breath she inhaled, then exhaled.

          Having witnessed Carrie experiencing a panic attack before, I knew that the last thing I should do was console her- especially with physical contact. Ever since I had known her, she had suffered from exaggerated anxiety when faced with even the slightest bit of stressful information, but this time was completely justified. Effectively calming herself down as she practiced controlled breathing, Dr. Nader introduced an option he should have suggested before sharing the diagnosis. Though the psychologically oblivious doctor took ample time to spread some optimism, he started speaking in a monotonous voice as to avoid arousing Carrie’s already tense state; he then finally shared the only potential scenario for her survival.

           Dr. Nader explained that although it was difficult to find a suitable donor match to replace the substantial cancerous area of Carrie’s intestine, it was nonetheless a possibility. He frankly stated that putting her on a donor list would be futile based on her limited time frame and that there were a vast number of patients somehow presenting exceedingly more emergent cases. However, if we were successful in locating a match donor, then convincing that person to selflessly spare a few feet of small intestine, Carrie would have a fighting chance at overcoming the disease. Putting her disadvantaged fate in our assumingly incapable hands, Dr. Nader morosely added that we would have to find a donor by the end of the week for the surgery to be effective.

           As we left the doctor’s office in awe of what we were just told, our distracted minds led us astray outside the medical office, unable to concentrate long enough to remember where we had parked the car. Feeling as though we were swirling against the natural momentum of the Earth at breakneck speeds, both Carrie and I felt lost. Overwhelmed with the task of finding a person willing to undergo surgery seemed to be a challenge in itself, but to find a person with the appropriate genetic make-up that wouldn’t force Carrie’s body to reject the extremely essential organ, seemed implausible. As we wandered around the small parking lot, unable to truly observe our surroundings as intrusive thoughts blinded us, we mumbled nonsense to one another, pretending as if we were capable of engaging in normal conversation.

           By process of elimination, we passed by every vehicle in the sun drenched lot before singling out our own dust painted hatchback car. Rushing to the passenger side to open the door for Carrie, she looked at me with resentment as if I had already begun treating her like a vulnerable patient in the palliative care wing of the hospital. The fact that my chivalrous gesture was perceived as uncharacteristic made me woeful; I realized that Carrie had never felt the adoration following such classic signs of affection. Vowing at that time to display constant unwavering love towards Carrie and to avoid ever missing an opportunity to shower her with random acts of kindness, I now wish I had more time to carry out my well-intentioned plan.  

            Sitting on the sweltering leather driver’s seat, I refrained from putting my key into the ignition as a way to postpone the tainted reality that awaited us at home, even though perspiration started to roll down both of our foreheads. Paying little attention to the tropical temperature from inside my furnace on wheels, I thought if we just sat in the parking lot behind the medical office, there would be a possibility that Dr. Nader would run out to our car to apologize for his oversight and explain that he had examined the x-ray of another unlucky man’s wife. Although it provided temporary reassurance to imagine such a farfetched mishap, Carrie urged me to start the car so we could get home to start searching for a match. Diligently indulging her request, I started the engine and backed out of my parking spot, looking in the rearview mirror in a last ditch effort to spot Dr. Nader waving us down. Alas he was nowhere to be found and I forced to drive away towards an inconvenient reality.

             Driving home, Carrie was unwilling to avert her wistful gaze from the car window. Looking through her cloudy, floating contacts, she observed the brilliance of the world in a way a healthy person took for granted. Turning her head towards her seat belt to wipe away a stray tear, she sniffled as if she was fighting a sneeze then asked me to veer into the parking lot of a rundown liquor store. Requesting a pit stop at the liquor store was a rarity for Carrie as she was adamant about not bringing me around temptations, even though a defective liver was incentive enough to develop an aversion to alcohol. Realizing that she had broken her own rule, she scattered to retract the request, imploring me to keep driving towards home. As much as she expressed guilt for even mentioning a booze run in the presence of what some may identify as a recovering alcoholic (although I merely refer to myself as recovering from a decade long party), I drove up to the liquor store and stepped out of the car, prompting Carrie to follow.

            Walking hesitantly into the liquor store, Carrie stayed two steps behind me; in case I changed my mind, she would be able to lead me back down the twelve steps to the car. As I opened the gated glass door, I casually gestured Carrie to walk in ahead of me. Opposing my invitation, she suggested that we leave and forget she had even said anything. Needing some encouragement, I leaned towards her and guided her with a firm hand into the store as I jokingly retorted her comment from earlier, “Please don’t think it’s your responsibility to fix me.”

           She lovingly rolled her eyes in response to my snide comment, then confidently strutted into the liquor store and grabbed a basket on her way, proving she had a long list of items to buy. Browsing each and every aisle, Carrie arbitrarily grabbed various dark and clear liquors with white, red, and rosé wines, on top of an assortment of local craft beers, without so much as looking at the labels or cost. Equally impressed by Carrie’s arm strength and eclectic palate when it came to choosing libations, I was astonished how quickly she ravaged the store of its inventory. Once one basket was filled, she would briskly walk back to the front of the store to retrieve another empty basket for additional bottles. I was so enamored by her masked, free-spirited side that I hardly acknowledged how I would have done even more damage if I was stocking up for a week-long binge- alone or in the company of friends. When we reached the counter, I insisted that I treat Carrie to her veritable adult Easter egg basket full containing the contents of a fully stocked bar; the least I could do was to help her indulge her lesser desires by numbing the pain associated with grasping her own mortality.

           I paid the astronomical liquor store bill with my high interest credit card knowing that it would take me quite some time to pay off the balance, then left the store carrying the twenty or so plastic and paper bags filled to capacity with various sized containers of alcohol. After loading the bags into the back seat as bottles clanged against each other, I made my way over to the passenger side of the car, but realized Carrie was out of sight. Panicking like a parent who took his eyes off a toddler playing on the jungle gym for a second, I frantically looked around the parking lot and peered into the liquor store window in case she had forgotten to pick up the one or two varieties of hard alcohol she had glanced over. Seriously contemplating reporting Carrie’s minute long disappearance to the police, I was relieved as I could hear her hollering my name from behind the store.

           I followed her call, leading me to a fast food restaurant drive-thru, where she was standing at the service window. Waving me over, I dodged a few fast moving vehicles to claim her before the server mistook my wife as an escaped psychiatric patient. Once I arrived, hearing the horns blaring from the confused, yet irritated cars in line at the hamburger joint, Carrie asked me for my credit card. As I pulled my wallet from my back pocket- not at all inquiring into the odd behavior- she grew impatient and snatched the plastic gold card from my hand, then relayed it to the cashier. Upon receipt of payment, Carrie was handed three large paper bags stuffed with napkins, straws, and overflowing stray French fries. Bewildered by her peculiar lunch choice, being that she had been a vegetarian since watching Bambi at the impressionable age of four, I once again refrained from questioning her erratic behavior and followed her back to the car.

           Once we were back in the car, Carrie rummaged through the bag of fast food and viciously bit into a double patty bacon cheeseburger as if she was a starved circus lion. As I watched the woman next to me- who appeared to be my wife, but acted as a person I had never met- she put the bag of treats between her feet, then contorted her body towards the back of the car. Shuffling through the liquor store bags, she found what she had been craving, then put a forty ounce bottle of vanilla flavored vodka between her thin thighs. After struggling with the cap, she flipped her torso down towards the bottle and wrapped her teeth around the foil. Flailing her auburn hair as she gnawed at the bottle cap, she finally broke the seal with her canine teeth, spat it to the floor mat, and took an impressive swig of the potent liquid. Using both hands to hold onto her value meal, she would sporadically dip down to taste the vanilla booze. Although displaying a cry for help, Carrie looked as content as an adult woman could be. By the time we arrived at home after a thirty minute car ride, she had managed to finish the entire bag of junk food as well as a baffling amount of vodka.

            Due to the incapacitating cocktail of existential stress and eighty proof spirits, Carrie struggled with the car door handle before stumbling onto the driveway. Leaving the hamburger wrappers and half empty bottle of vodka in the car, she staggered towards the front steps, trying to maintain her balance until I could catch up with her to unlock the door. Swinging the front door open by pushing her dead weight against the varnished door, she walked straight into the living and flopped on the couch after pulling her laptop off the table, thereby disconnecting it from the power supply with a swift motion. As I hovered over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t googling inaccurate information about her life expectancy from biased forums- knowing that would only discourage her. Delighted by what I could see on the screen from my inopportune angle, she was attempting with difficulty to log into her Facebook page. After several times of accidentally pushing the caps lock key while entering her password, then steadying her vision to find the backspace key to start over, she finally had success and logged in. Remaining silent, Carrie guided the cursor to the status bar and then furrowed her brow as she thought long and hard regarding how she could put her exceptionally defeated mood into words. Once she finished tapping away on the keyboard, she pushed the computer on the floor to make room for her to lie down. Allowing her squinting eyes to shut, she sprawled out on the couch and immediately fell fast asleep.

          Partially relieved that Carrie wasn’t in a state to discuss her medical condition and the devastation around what would follow, I sighed with relief as I tucked her in with a black and red quilt her mother had made. When she seemed to be comfortable and safe, I picked up her laptop to make sure she didn’t roll on it, or even worse vomit as a result of a stomach churning combination of grease and flavored alcohol. As I lifted the glare of the screen towards my face, I stood there resisting the temptation to invade Carrie’s privacy by perusing her account. I rationalized my snooping by limiting what I’d look at to her recently posted status and pictures. Looking through her pictures dating back to before we were married, depicting the most eventful and exciting eras of her life, I grinned as I saw her transformation from a vivacious young woman dressed to the nines while clubbing with her friends to the stunning lady wearing the lavish white wedding dress that once brought a tear to my eye as I saw it elegantly coming towards me down the aisle. Provoking the same reaction as it did all those years ago, tears began streaming down my face, splashing the keyboard below. Trying to simultaneously wipe away the tears that collected between the keys as well as the ones dripping off my chin, I closed her photo album before I started sobbing- risking waking up Carrie.

          Averting my attention to her home page, I could see the status she had been trying to write in her intoxicated state. Incomprehensibly written, there were strings of consonants, vowels, and symbols grouped into what Carrie assumed to be words before passing out. I deleted the nonsensical status and thought back to Dr. Nader’s ultimatum concerning our responsibility of finding a match for the organ donation. Assured that social media would be the best way to reach out to Carrie’s loved ones, it seemed obvious that a simple status update referring to the recent tragic turn of events would compel at least one suitable individual to donate. I disregarded Carrie’s say in how a donor was found or whether she would actually broadcast her ailment to a collection of four hundred and twenty-seven friends, family members, acquaintances, and strangers who merely wanted to add a pretty woman to their friend list. Despite Carrie’s suspected desire for privacy, I chose to write the status for her as I assumed my disregard for her introverted nature would be in her best interest.

          Writing from my strained heart, I wrote truthfully about Carrie’s medical state, including heart wrenching solicitation- not to exploit my wife’s illness, but to pander to those on her friends list who didn’t know her very well and needed an extra incentive. The status was written as follows:

                I hope this status reaches my most generous friends and family. Usually I wouldn’t ask for anything, but due to a terminal diagnosis, I am hoping that everyone who reads this will feel the urge to answer my call. The sad truth is that I have very little time left to live and if I don’t receive a small intestine donor by the end of the week, I will have to start saying my goodbyes. Although you don’t owe me anything, I would owe my life to anyone who goes to their local hospital to get tested for a potential match. Please refer results to the oncology office of Dr. Francis Nader as soon as possible. Again, I don’t expect any of you to save my life, but I would appreciate the chance to continue my full and happy life.

                Before I could edit or review what I had written, I reflexively clicked on the “Post” button and hoped for at least a couple responses. I thought at the very least, people would go and get tested, which would be a step in the right direction. If strangers regularly give their hard earned money to ridiculous GoFundMe campaigns, it was entirely plausible that a close relative or longtime friend would consider sharing an organ.

                Waiting for Carrie’s friend list to start responding to her fraudulent post, I doubted the Hail Mary attempt at begging for a viable organ and considered deleting the post before Carrie saw it and scolded me for betraying her trust. Rotating my cursor over the delete button, I was dissatisfied with the lack of support Carrie had in her life and wished she had been seen as greater value to those selfish people. As I let my emotions get the best of me, my disdain for Carrie’s friend list was alleviated as comments and likes began descending from the original post. Once momentum picked up and the post was shared on other Facebook pages, the yearning to help Carrie in her time of need went viral. Beyond her four hundred and twenty-seven friends, I stood in disbelief watching the activity grow exponentially; within the first half hour, the post had been viewed by two thousand people. Of those two thousand people, seven hundred definitely agreed to go get tested in hopes of being a match. In awe of the rare benevolent nature of perfect strangers and loved ones alike, human kind rose to the occasion and gave Carrie a fighting chance at postponing her death sentence.

                I enthusiastically watched my Facebook post all evening and night as the comments and sharing of the post escaladed to an international support system. Providing us with thousands of potential donors, all we had to do was wait to hear from Dr. Nader if even a single one of the donors was a match. Distracted by the adrenaline created from the overwhelming unconditional support, I barely noticed Carrie wake up from her long slumber on the couch next to me. Hearing a few baritone grunts, I greeted her and inconsiderately asked how she was feeling. First responding to her hangover, she said that she had a pounding headache and felt nauseous. Then, she realized that she had a condition far worse than a hangover and became trapped in a deathly silence as she remembered the initial reason for drowning her sorrows in processed meat and artificially flavored vodka. Breaking her silence as she inquired as to what I was doing, my heart sank once I remembered that my social media campaign might not go over very well with Carrie.

                Correct in my assumption, Carrie grabbed her computer from me and widened her eyes in shock as she read the post I had written disguised as her. As it was a particularly sensitive and personal decision to make, she condemned me for making such a bold decision without consulting her. Apologizing for acting without her consent, I tried to soften the blow that thousands of people were privy to her medical situation by imploring her to look at the amount of attention it had received. While she appeared embarrassed to see how many people responded, she covered her blossoming smile as she giggled with excitement. Acknowledging my good intentions, Carrie embraced my neck and kissed my cheek in gratitude, expressing her appreciation for doing something that she didn’t have the courage to do for herself. Once again becoming a team, we had a glimmer of hope of finding an organ and extending Carrie’s life. However short my optimism lasted, it was nice to feel it- no matter how brief of a feeling it was.

                We went about our day as we would any other rainy summer Saturday, binge watching our favorite television crime dramas and ordering copious amounts of Chinese food- simply spending quality time with each other. Although the day’s events were as typical as any other, the difference was that we were battling the sinking feeling of the unknown. We didn’t mention it out loud but we were clearly both stricken with anxiety in anticipation of Dr. Nader’s call. We looked at our cell phones every few seconds in fear we had missed a call, but the blank screens left us in anguish each and every time. Unable to taste the delectable Asian cuisine or become enthralled in the plot of our new favorite show, our senses were dulled by the possibility of there not being a suitable match out there in the world, making those cherished nights limited. Covered in fortune cookie crumbs void of any promising fortunes, we started to drift off on the couch while the television’s glare watched over us. Since it was ten o’clock at night, we had given up on a call for that day and decided to allow our racing minds to slow down to a brisk walk. As life is pathologically deceiving, just when we took a second to think about something less unnerving, Carrie’s cell phone buzzed between her hands.

                Carrie looked down at the unknown number and sighed in disappointment as she had saved Dr. Nader’s office number in her contacts. Assuming it was a telemarketer or a wrong number dialed by a drunken bar hopper, she refused the call and let her head flop onto my shoulder, returning to a blissful sleep. A minute later Carrie’s phone buzzed a single vibration between her hands, indicating that someone had left a voicemail message. Confused by the apparent persistence by modern day telemarketers, she curiously listened to the message. Recognizing the voice on the message, Carrie’s face lit up as she exclaimed that it was none other than Dr. Nader calling from his personal phone. Hearing the echo of his monotonous voice deliver the best news I had ever heard in my life, I waited for Carrie to confirm my shoddy eavesdropping skills, then jumped up as she shrieked a euphoric scream. Her mouth tried to keep up with her speeding thoughts as she babbled with joy, explaining that her old friend Jude was a match and that the surgery was scheduled for the next day.

                Ecstatic to hear that the torture of waiting for a match and subsequent surgery was expedited, I assumed we would be able to get back to our normal lives sooner than anticipated. Following our literal jump for joy, I told Carrie to get back on Facebook to contact her miraculously selfless friend to arrange the specifics of her trip and to offer to pay for the travel costs incurred. Without skipping a beat, Carrie rummaged for her laptop hidden beneath a mountain of Chinese food take out containers, then said she was astonished that Jude would offer to help her since it had been the better part of a decade since they had seen each other. Explaining that they had not been given the chance to catch up since high school, Carrie could barely remember what Jude even looked like. Recalling some sort of falling out before graduation, she was flabbergasted that an estranged friend would go through the grueling process of surgery and subsequent recovery.

 Once she found Jude on Facebook, she noticed that she was still living in Carrie’s hometown- located eighteen hundred miles across the country. Starting to reconsider my offer to pay for travel expenses- expecting to pay for a day’s worth of gas- it dawned on me that I would have to foot a several hundred dollar roundtrip flight. Hoping my credit card had not been maxed out by Carrie’s junk food and alcohol run the night before, I put finance on the backburner and was just happy to see the hope in Carrie’s child-like eyes. After expressing her gratitude, buying Jude a costly flight, and arranging to meet at the hospital the next afternoon before their pre-op procedures, my outlook was trustingly cheerful enough to fall asleep with little care in the world. Suckered in by the ease with which we were able to deal with Carrie’s diagnosis from convenient resources, I was unaware that she would sleep in my arms for the last time that night.

                Having slept right through the morning, we scurried out of bed to meet Dr. Nader and Jude to begin preparations for the surgery. As we pulled up to the hospital entrance, Carrie couldn’t restrain her excitement upon seeing Jude and jumped out of the moving car to embrace her old friend. Confused by the direction in which she was running to greet her organ donor, she ran right into the arms of a casually dressed man in a black baseball cap. Understanding that I jumped to the conclusion of Jude’s gender and realized that Carrie had not corrected my misuse of the pronoun used when referring to her old friend, it was shocking but was still great to see the man that volunteered to save my wife’s life. After finding a parking spot at the far end of the hospital parkade, I was introduced to Jude, who shook my hand with a firm shake, then reverted his attention back to Carrie. As I listened to them get reacquainted, it was touching to see how strong a friendship could be after years of separation.

                Insisting that she would rather go into the hospital room alone, thinking that my view of her would somehow change in a hospital gown, Carrie assured me that she would be fine and that she would see me after the surgery. As I brushed her frizzy hair over her ear and looked in her captivating eyes for the last time, I wholeheartedly believed her when she said everything was going to be fine. Although she seemed confident that going into surgery wouldn’t affect our future and that our lives would be the exact same when she was discharged, was nothing less than a shortsighted assumption. Even Jude’s life changed following that surgery and the irony is that if I didn’t take it upon myself to recruit his organ, he might not have had the opportunity to rekindle his first love.

Granted both Carrie and Jude’s surgeries were successes. They awoke from their anesthesia knowing that their futures belonged to each other, needing to re-start their romance without hesitation.  From what I’ve heard via lawyers, they live back in their hometown as healthy as the doctors could have hoped for. As for me, I struggle with the series of events that led to my divorce and loneliness, since I facilitated Carrie’s change of heart. Reverting to my old ways, I make a valiant effort to avoid falling into a deceitfully meaningful relationship and prefer to spend my nights at the bar rather than at home watching episodes of overly dramatic television shows while gorging on deep fried MSG. As happy as I am that Carrie recovered from her illness, fully able to live a long and full life, I must say that I tragically lost Carrie at the hospital that day and as far as I’m concerned, she died on that operating table.