Chapter 2: It didn’t go like this
Georgetown Hospital
October 13
In my head, there are multiple alternative endings. This is one of them.
My sister and five brothers carried Mike’s leather Pottery Barn lounge chair into his hospital room the day before he died. They came through those swinging ICU doors and down the busy hallway, nurses and doctors and staff clearing the way for them. Somehow, they squeezed that massive chair into his tiny room.
Molly's husband Sam was hanging white Christmas lights across the ceiling when my siblings arrived. My mom was massaging Mike’s feet with the beeswax lotion Siobhan had given him. Mike had just finished telling her the story of getting his tattoo in the Philippines.
Molly started painting the wall so that it looked like our backyard, the two giant oak trees, the chicken coop, and piles of leaves.
Kevin said, “There’s not enough room in here. Let’s take this other wall out." So they removed the wall, like the actual hospital wall, and built a little porch. I remember how good it felt when the room filled with the soft sixty-five-degree October breeze.
When the porch was finished and Mike was in his chair with our golden doodle at his side, the visits began. His first doctor, the endoscopy one, brought a box of lotion plus tissues. The nurses from Johns Hopkins stopped by to tell Mike that he made their days at work more fun and meaningful. The IV-whisperer nurse put lotion on his arms and said, “Hello love. No more pokes, no more prods.” Mike responded, “I didn’t mind when it was from you.”
Mike’s oncologist came, he was quiet. And Mike said, “I know you did everything you could. And I know you wish you weren’t done with me.”
Mike's family came. They had a debate about the state of the world and told their funny childhood stories.
Everyone told him how lucky they had been to know him, to see his smile, to grow up with him, to laugh with him, to have shared some time with him, to have created stories with him. They told him he would be missed, and remembered, and that his life mattered. They told him that the village around him would not go away. “We know it won’t be the same without you, but we will keep loving everyone you love,” they said.
The nurses and doctors gave me their cell numbers and told me I could call them whenever I needed anything for the rest of my life.
James Taylor and YoYo Ma played duets near the nurse’s station. I told James about my lifelong crush. I asked YoYo Ma if he’d be my dad. When they needed a break, Iron and Wine played Trapeze Swinger on repeat. And then Brandi Carlile sang This Time Tomorrow over and over and over.
My sisters-in-laws, my friends, my people, my LandsEnd turtlenecks, my blank notebooks and mechanical pencils, my hiking boots and Darn Tough socks were all around the corner, ready for when I would need them.
My therapist stayed in the room, quietly collecting the memories and feelings for me. She knew we would need them later.
From the porch, we saw a view of the Georgetown University football field. Jonah and Jack were playing a game with Garth, Welsh, Ian, Sam, Bill, and Scott. Jonah threw a perfect spiral downfield, and Jack ran, jumped, and caught it with one outstretched hand. The girls were on their bikes circling the field with Casey behind them, his six-foot frame on a tiny bike, being goofy, making them laugh. He made sure they knew they are seen and loved.
I remember when the four of them looked up and waved with tears in their eyes and love all around them.
The Tallos brought their Solo firepit with enough wood for one night. Rob and Jane brought a charcuterie board of olives and avocado and Manchego cheese, apples, and good crusty bread. We watched them from the porch.
Mike told me all his passwords that night. He told me how to fix every future house problem. He promised me that mice would never be in the kitchen and the car would never have a flat tire at a state park in the middle of nowhere.
I told him everything I knew he wanted to hear.
We snuggled up in cozy flannel pajamas under quilts and stars.
We made room for two in that leather chair as we did in our earliest days together.
He said to me, “You are made of sun, autumn leaves, shadows, and the wind. You will wake up and I will not. Write some stories, Katie.”
Chapter 3: Mike's endoscopy appointment
Mike’s endoscopy was on a Tuesday afternoon in November. I was too busy to be nervous. Everyone had violin and soccer and ballet and was eating three meals a day. Also, my jealousy was increasing about Mike’s decreasing weight. He wasn’t even trying! The appointment was just another thing, something scribbled on our family calendar. “Endoscopy 4 pm.” I’m not sure if I knew what an endoscopy was before that day. Mike called me from work that morning, “I just re-read the email, I can’t take myself, I won’t be able to drive home. Can you take me?”
Of course.
It would be an hour-long appointment. It was easier for me to bring the girls than to find a sitter. They were professional tag-along-ers. I brought snacks and the LeapFrog toy. When we arrived though, we saw there was no waiting room. I left Mike there and we drove around, looked for a park, and ended up walking around a thrift store. I was in line to pay for Mary’s dream shoes, four-dollar blue Velcro strapped Converse, when I got the call that Mike was ready. I set the shoes on a random shelf. “Sorry sweetie. We’ll get these another day.”
We never went back for those shoes and I’ve always regretted not buying them. In the months that followed, Mary reminded me regularly.
“Can we go back to that store to get the blue shoes?”
No. We will never go back to that store, or that street, or that part of the world. Ever.
When we walked into the office, the woman at the front desk said, “Why don’t I hang out with your girls so that you can talk to the doctor.” She took me to the room where Mike was still lying down from the procedure. Dr. Koh was sitting next to him and a computer.
“How’s he doing?” I asked.
“Oh, he’s feeling pretty good right now from the propofol.”
Mike was smiling, almost glowing, a little giddy. He happily received propofol two more times in the next month, and unfortunately never again, but he always asked for it.
While he smiled, the doctor showed me photos of the inside of his stomach. I didn’t know what the inside of a normal stomach looked like but she seemed worried.
“Are you concerned?” I asked.
“Yes. Often these isolated gastric varices are a sign there is something in the pancreas.”
“Something like?” I asked and looked at Mike who was still glowing.
“Like a tumor. It’s possible.” she said.
“Oh.”
I stopped breathing.
The words “tumor” and “pancreas” were too close together.
“Ok. What do we do next?” I asked.
Stop smiling, I thought, as I looked at Mike. Or maybe I thought, thank God he was still drugged. I don’t remember. Words like "CT scan as soon as possible" and "follow-up" were coming out of the doctor's mouth.
I said okay and thank you as if she told me my 42-year-old husband might need a bandage.
But that moment, in that tiny office, on that Tuesday in November, was when my insides shifted. Did our lives immediately change? No, not yet. We got in the car, we ordered pizza on the way home, we ate it, and put the girls to bed. But I had changed by the time we reached the van. I was no longer the same woman who woke up that morning, the one with a future with her husband, the one with some certainty.
I changed more on that afternoon than I did the day he died. I knew it was bad, I knew he was dying. Over the next two weeks, it would be confirmed with scans and blood work and a biopsy but I knew. My heart moved. It crawled into a corner. My blood boiled. My body did not have enough space for my aches, and the darkness inside of me expanded.
And I looked at Mike with enough pretend hope that he saw some.
I looked at our children with love and confidence and wrapped them in snacks and blankets. I knew how to pretend to be okay, but I was shaking and scared at my core.
I prayed that night, but not for scan results. I knew prayers couldn’t change what was already inside his body. I prayed that our center, our family, would hold. I prayed that he wouldn’t be in too much pain. I prayed for all the people I knew we would need. I prayed that I wouldn’t completely lose myself.
I began to miss that other Katie. I’m sure he did as well. I never looked at him the same way, how we look at the people who we believe will be around forever, will see grow wrinkles and gray hair, will love and teach and annoy and read to and embarrass and eat countless meals with children. I looked at him with too much tenderness and love.
On Thursday we went in for his scan.
On Friday morning I was at work when Mike texted me that the doctor had asked him to come in.
Right now.
I picked him up from work, and we went into her office. Dr. Koh, whom we met three days earlier, told us that Mike had a large tumor in his pancreas. It was 13 centimeters long.
