Chapter Seven

Midnight Sonata

Each time we met, our friendship grew. It was just little things. A walk, a smile, a joke, or maybe just a touch that made the nights seem young. I had been writing to a girl I’d met a few months earlier while visiting a friend in New Mexico. She was planning a trip to Utah to see me. It was the dear Jane phone call that killed our distant romance about the same time Steve got the cold shoulder in the car. Even though Steve had been defeated he still wasn’t ready to give up the fight. He had somehow managed to keep up the illusion alive that he and Mary could steal away to Europe and tour the countryside.

Everything I wanted was just two doors down the veranda. Mary told me months later that she had felt terrible for the way things had happened in the car that night with Steve, but my feelings had been more important. She wasn’t even sure why. We were just friends, nothing more, nothing less. We’d never talked about exclusivity and even though she still dated both Steve and others on occasion, and sent a sporadic letter to her friend Scott, in Canada, our relationships were narrowing down.

One evening after their return from Zions, Mary and I talked about some of my long motorcycle rides. It soon became a discussion about her desire to see her parents in Washington twelve hours away. It would be fun. It was decided. We’d take a trip on my bike. As the days passed and I thought about the trip, I became troubled. A long motorcycle ride is very hard on the body. If we stopped halfway and camped out, it wouldn’t be appropriate. Vibrations, a narrow seat, one position, the helmet, and even though I had microphones and speakers so driver and passenger could talk, it wasn’t always a pleasant conversation to compete with the noisy wind.

July 12, 2010

It was 3:19 am when I rolled to my back and peered at the glow of the giant digital alarm clock across the room. My children had purchased the silly thing as sort of white elephant gift. They had said my previous clock was an antique. They told me the big numbers would be ‘easier’ to read. I’ve not needed an alarm in years, and the bright red glow from my night stand had nearly given me a sun burn on my bald head when I slept—so now it’s across the room. I lay there a few minutes wondering why I was wide awake. I guess it was because I was worrying about the girl by my side. I knew we’d see the surgeon the next day, and I wasn’t sure what the outcome would be.

I could hear Mary’s deep breaths. I rolled to my shoulder to watch her. The incandescent light from the patio door and window gave me a clear view of her shapely figure as she lay with her back toward me. Last night had been our date night, but she had been exhausted from her near thirteen hour shift. There is something about our weekly schedule that makes me plan and anticipate and ache when our dates are postponed. I contemplated spooning up against her familiar body, running my fingers through her hair where it falls against her face. It’s an occasional treat when one of us wakes the other in the middle of the night with tender strokes of affection. I lay there thinking of her cool skin, goose bumps trailing behind my fingers as I ran them gently across her thighs, arms and chest. Would she still be too tired or would she wake with her sleepy smile that would invite me to continue?

Mary rolled toward me onto her back . . . she began to snore. I turned to the wall, rolled from the bed, plopped my feet onto the carpet and trudged to the bathroom where I scratched, made water and some of my own reverberating air, washed my hands, and jammed a single ear plug into my right ear. After I climbed back into bed, I lay there with my left ear on my pillow listening to the midnight sonata as the vibrations echoed through the bed frame on into the long sleepless morning light.

As the trip to Washington grew closer I became more troubled. Mary was excited and looked forward to it with enthusiasm. I dreaded telling her I didn’t feel good about the drive. I didn’t want to disappoint her. It must have been about the first of July, just two days from our planned departure when I finally got up the nerve. We were sitting in her apartment ready to go out for the evening when I blurted it out. “I’m having second thoughts about our trip on the bike.”

Mary looked at me with a puzzled expression and then asked me with one of those duh tones, “Why?”

“I don’t know exactly. A long trip on a bike is hard.”

I think that evening was my second lesson on telling Mary ‘no,’ the original had been a disaster and I hadn’t thought this one through any better. I could first see it in her eyes. It trickled down her body as each muscle tightened. She stood. Stared directly into my eyes and said, “I don’t care if you want to go or not. I’m going without you.”

I was afraid she was about to walk me to the door and tell me to leave. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go. It was just the bike. Had I thought the conversation through, I would have said something like this;

Mary, I’ve been thinking about how much I am going to enjoy our trip to Washington together. I look forward to spending time with you and I really look forward to meeting your family. I’m just worried about our safety and your comfort while riding a bike for twelve hours. Because we will be in the wind the entire trip it will make it hard for us to talk and I’d really like to get to know more about you. Would you be willing to reconsider the bike and let me go with you in a car? But that would have been too many words.

“No, no, it’s not that I don’t want to go,” I started to explain.

Mary’s arms were folded tightly across her chest. I’ve seen that look many times too, this very morning as a matter of fact.

July 16, 2010

I’ve been researching more on the Her2 negative this morning. It’s not what we wanted to see. Most women with the BRCA1 gene are Her2 negative. It doesn’t necessarily mean that those with the triple negative are BRCA1, but the odds are greater. Once the cancer is whipped, Mary’s chances of a reoccurrence are three times greater because of the triple negative.

Mary has gone for a walk in the park. We process information so much differently, she and I. I need to get everything I can get and then process it so I don’t get anymore surprises than necessary. Mary would prefer to gather her information on an ‘as needed’ basis and as she feels the strength to absorb it all. When she returned from the walk she came into the kitchen and told me that she had talked to Dr. Rich about the Her2. He had told her that the cancer is susceptible to Chemo and it seems to respond well. He also told her that she is three times more likely to have a reoccurrence.

I opened my mouth and added some of the information I had learned; that brain mastitis is more likely, and that the triple negative is more prevalent in BRCA1. I should know better by now. Thirty-years and I still haven’t figured out how to be sensitive about what I say. New goal: Listen; pay attention, don’t talk until careful thought has occurred.

I suppose that’s why I’m writing this story. I can edit, correct, rewrite and review. It is perhaps the best way I can tell her how I feel. Not many men have been blessed with so many tunes of the heart from their girls, as I have been given from mine. But, Mary, this is how much I love you and more. I will do my best to be more sensitive.

It’s your stubborn determination that will get you through this. You’ve done hard things before and this will be one more of those things that we’ll get through together.

Standing there with that look of stubborn determination was one of the qualities that drew me to Mary. I almost laugh as I think about that scene.

“I’ll just take my little car and go without you,” she insisted before I could fix the mess I’d made.

“Hold on a minute,” I blurted. “I want to go with you. I’m just worried about going on the bike.”

Mary’s shoulders relaxed a little. “What are you worried about?”

“Twelve hours is a very long time to sit on a motorcycle seat with the wind whipping at your hair. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Mary returned to the couch and uncrossed her arms. “I can do it if you can,” she said.

“I know you can. I like that about you. I would just feel better if we drove a car.”

It was agreed, it would be Mary’s little Fiesta and we would leave right after work on Friday, the third of July.