Countdown

One year ago I tossed a card into my shopping cart like it was nothing. It was the funny kind, not sappy, with a corny pun I can’t remember now but could probably find in some box if I dug deep enough. My children drew pictures inside before we sealed it and sent it on its way.

I called him that Sunday to wish him a happy Father’s Day. Our conversation was simple. We chatted about the day and our upcoming family reunion. I probably groaned about the hardships of motherhood—he was easy to groan to. He probably reassured me that I was doing a great job. I let his words wash over me but hung up too soon, as though I had a wellspring of fatherly encouragement bubbling up in my backyard, as though I’d always be free to sink down into those words. That voice.

Eleven months ago the two of us stood together on a squinty-bright day, up to our knees in Bear Lake. We gazed across the water, chuckled at sand-covered children, and discussed the weather, of all pointless things. His occasional cough that weekend made me cringe, but he jet-skied, played games, and filled my reunion memories so full of his presence I’m surprised I can’t find him in more of my pictures.

Ten months ago I cradled the phone on my shoulder and frantically folded laundry as his words hung in the air and the silence stretched on. Three pairs of matched socks later I still couldn’t speak, so he forged ahead in his quiet way, assuring me that “this kind isn’t genetic, Aim, so you won’t have to worry about getting it.” As though that was the fear that was closing my throat and roaring in my ears. (But also, oh, he knew me.)

Nine months ago we all came together for a backyard Labor Day party. He was there—skinny already and tired, and also scared. This was the day before chemo began. I witnessed my brothers give him a blessing of comfort in an upstairs bedroom, where he spoke some of his fear and we did our best to bolster him. Back outside he mentioned going home to rest, and suddenly we were taking picture after picture, in all kinds of groupings—father and sons, grandpa and new twin grandbabies, dozens of us together in one panoramic shot. I wanted to press for more, but it felt almost like a lack of hope, this desperate photo session with its unspoken motivation. I bit my tongue instead of calling my own three children over to smile with Grandpa. There would be more time.

Seven months ago, the chemo had not done its job. Surgery was offered but swiftly rejected. The options were gone; there was talk of preparing ourselves for the inevitable, perhaps in the beginning of the new year. I vacillated but decided to stick to our plan to spend Thanksgiving in Idaho with my in-laws. (The kids are so excited to go, I reasoned. And there’s still time.) So we left and we feasted on turkey and pie, tucked away in a cozy ranch house too remote for cellular service. That evening as we drove back into civilization, my phone came to life with missed calls and texts. My husband pulled into his parents’ driveway and he and the kids piled into the house while I stood in the dark behind our minivan and called my brother back.

“Come,” he said. “You should really come now.”

So I borrowed a car and drove myself back across the state line, away from my little family and the comfort of denial and straight into reality. Other siblings drove and flew and we converged for a surreal weekend filled with truth and reminiscence, bedside joke telling, and time enough for private and earnest goodbyes.

That Monday morning I saw my brother’s name on caller ID, so I took the phone out to the porch to hear the news I knew he was going to give me. Bright clouds to the east were piled high on the valley floor, nestled in against the mountains, all lit up with sunrise. I breathed the cold, clean air as I let the words in—words I still can’t believe are the truth.

Today, six months later, I pushed my cart past the card display and my heart turned away and my feet were like boulders. I slogged back home, where my irritation flew freely and littered the floor like the empty wrappers and forgotten toys I just kicked and ignored. I shooed and I scolded and I nagged until night, when I lay with my stubborn, squirming daughter and stared at the bottom of the top bunk, clenching my jaw, willing her to unwind even as I seethed in the darkness beside her. When her breathing finally turned soft and her limbs went still, my tears fell so hot they almost hissed.