An honors theater class at the University of Utah put on a production about the Celebration of Life-- about Cancer survivors. They had three survivors that they featured and Andrew was one of them. To prepare, they met with Andrew numerous times and spoke with me a few times about certain stories and feelings and aspects of the entire experience.
The night of the performance, the entire family came out to support it.
It was kind of indescribable. I had sent them some bloggings that I had done during the experience and about the experience as my contribution to their stories-- it was easier than trying to relate them all to them orally. At one point, "my character" was shown off to the side, telling a part of a story. It was after Andrew's character "Kyle" was telling the others that his wife slept up at the hospital with him every night. Then, my character was off to the side in a spotlight telling her part of it. As she spoke, it was incredible, painfully familiar. She stood off to the side of the room and recited,
I don't sleep well at the hospital. The nurses are constantly bustling in and out of the room, the IV tower acting as a lifeline is constantly alerting the nurses or this or that, and Andrew would have fits of fevers or chills. I spent the nights staring the ceiling only pretending to sleep as the nurses would enter the room.
By the time light was shining through the hospital room window and I could hear the activities of a shift change outside the room, I would be aching to get up. I would gather my belongings, kiss Andrew's forehead and assure him I would be back later and to call if he needed anything. Usually, he barely stirred.
His face was gray and swollen, his eyes sunken. His hair had long been gone. No more blonde locks, no eyelashes, no eyebrows. He looked emaciated and pained. I'd smile at the nurses as I passed their station. Sometimes one would ask when I'd be back. The answer was usually the same. I would be back after work. To call me if they need me.
I never worried about him while he was up at the hospital. Chances were good that I would pass another willing "babysitter" in the parking lot coming to sit in with him. I stopped in the lobby and bought my coffee. "Right on time," the man would remark. I would force a smile, thank him, and head for my car.
Once my car started, I would stare blankly at the dashboard. Taking a deep breath, I would back out and head down the winding hill towards our house. The traffic was all headed the opposite direction as everyone rushed to start their days. Like clockwork, the tears start. First, one tear sliding out the side of my eye. I brush it away quickly. I lecture myself and try to concentrate on my drive. Silently, the tears fall freely down my face. I rarely remember the drive. Sitting in the driveway, I check my face to make sure it's not too red, gather my belongings, then pull myself from the car.
My neighbor says good morning. I feign the most cheerful voice I can muster and return the greeting. "How's Andrew?" I smile. "He's good..." It's not a lie. For his condition and what they've done to him, he really is good. She doesn't need the details of his emaciated body, his sunken eyes, his graying face, and his comatosed state of being. I let myself inside, strip down and turn on the water to the shower.
The water is refreshing. The heat is comforting and cleansing. It brings more tears. I have to get them out before facing the world again. Before going to work. Before calling and reporting to the family. Before heading back to the hospital. This is my moment.
I take it, turn off the water, and start another day.
***
My mom was nearly sobbing... our entire line of family was crying... I was crying. It was a side of me that remained hidden from most of my friends and family during that time... and suddenly it made sense to the family that had mentioned to Andrew and others that they "never see Krista cry..."
The play was very well-done... I was definitely impressed that it was put together by a bunch of freshman theater students, only one of which was a theater major. My mom staked out the professor after the production and Q&A period and thanked him. She cried as she told him that she always wondered how her daughter could hold up and how she did it. He had showed her. The students' professor promised us a film of the production.
Very very strange to see your life story played out by different characters by different names. Very, very surreal.
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