“it’s like staring down the barrel of a gun.” this is how a man named gary described his experience taking care of his wife, martha, who had ovarian cancer. i met him in the waiting area of the blood lab at toronto’s princess margaret cancer centre a few years ago.
when a nurse came out and yelled, “45, 45, 45,” as her tired eyes scanned the room, both martha and i stood up, clutching the tiny square pieces of paper we were given when we checked in. strangely, we had the same number.
“must be a sign,” martha said in a raspy voice, as the nurse led her into one of the many rooms used to take blood. “you’ll be 46,” the nurse said to me.
i sat back down beside gary, who seemed to be around 80. he introduced himself and then said that i should buy a lottery ticket. “i mean, how often do the same numbers come out of the machine?” he laughed quietly, fiddling with the shiny blue suspenders that stretched over his oversized red flannel shirt.
“whadda you in for?” he asked. i told him a little about my story, which seemed to make him sad. he said that cancer was a killer of everything, and he patted my knee.
“i’m not complaining. it’s just… hard”
he told me about how his wife had been ill for months, and that they no longer went to bingo or to sunday tea with their friends because she was too tired. and that he didn’t really eat anymore (“she used to make me the best grilled cheese sandwiches”) or clean (“with my bad back, dishes are hard”) or laugh (“she had the best laugh”). he also described how they slept in separate beds because any movement caused her pain. instead, he slept on the floor beside her bed, waking often to check on her.
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