My wife Cynthia died on a Monday. She had been unconcerned when she started spotting between her periods and didn't bother me with the concerns of her gynoclogist until the diagnosis came back, uterine cancer. The cancer was stage IV and highly aggressive, the doctor didn't sugarcoat the results. Cynthia fought hard, surgery, radiation and chemotherapy, but in the end the diagnosis had come too late. We planned the end as best we could and we sat up late at night simply cuddled together on the couch, enjoying each other for another day.
No matter the planning and the time we had we couldn't solve the biggest problem, our daughter Sam. Sam, short for Samantha, was our miracle baby. We adopted her after six years on the waiting list and then spent the first year getting through a number of small medical challenges. Now she was a bright, wild, and lovable three year old, a three year old that could understand why mama and dada were so sad. We tried to talk to Sam and help her understand what was coming, but we knew she wouldn't get the reality of the situation until the time came. Cynthia made her videos for later and wrote her letters for each birthday, but you could see how her death was already weighing her down.
That Monday started in a clichéd rain shower. Cynthia had been going downhill quickly and had moved back into the house for her last few days. Our doctors had prescribed a healthy amount on morphine and Cynthia told me she didn't feel the pain. I could see she was lying. She asked me to stay in bed that morning, and curled up on my lap, holding my hand to her shoulder. I felt her breathe in ragged gasps and then as she squeezed my hand her breathing stopped. I held her for another half hour, just brushing her hair with my hand, before I called the funeral home.
Sam had just woken up when the funeral home personnel arrived. I talked to the man in charge and then took Sam out to breakfast; letting them men take my wife and get her ready before Sam said her goodbyes. I wanted her last memories to be of how pretty mama was, not of an emaciated corpse curled in the fetal position on our bed.
The funeral was on Wednesday and was well attended. I have never met a person more loved than my wife, and a number of my colleagues and students from my college attended out of respect for me. Sam stood beside me while I eulogized my wife and only started crying when she saw mama in the coffin, stiff, lifeless and gone. We drove home from the graveyard in silence and spent the rest of the day curled up on Sam's bed, holding each other and crying our sadness away.
I went back to work the following Monday. My dean had offered more leave, but I couldn't stay at home any longer. Sam's grandma took her during the days so that I could work, just like before, and we settled into a routine of silently moving on. I took Sam to the shrinks so that she could move on, and I moved on in the same way I always addressed adversity, silently and with little excitement. The next two years were a haze of lifeless existence but every day was a little less of a hell than the day before.
Two years after Cynthia passed away, her mother took ill and had to move to assisted living. I helped her pack and took care of closing up her house. Sam helped Grammie put her things away in the new complex apartment and promised to visit her often. Grammie was sorry she couldn't watch Sam anymore, and I told her not to worry. It was only a year until Kindergarten started and I would make have to make other plans. We drove home as I ran through options in my head.
My neighbor, Tina, and her husband asked if Sam could spend the night that evening we dropped off Grammie. They said it was so that Sam could have a sleep over with their daughter Rayne, but I knew they were trying to give me a night off. I thanked them and said I would be over early to pick up Sam, but they told me not to worry, they were planning on going to the zoo anyway. Good friends know how to help and I accepted the offer with thanks.
For the first time in a couple of years I had a night off from being Dad. Part of me wanted to go home and curl up alone, but another part of me knew I needed to get out and do something. I finally decided to go downtown and enjoy a nice dinner and drink at a restaurant that didn't have a children's menu.
The smell of a finely seared steak wafted across my senses as I came up to the Grillhouse, our local steak cuisine hotspot. The hostess looked a little askew at me when I asked for a table for one, and offered me a seat at the bar. I looked at all the couples gazing at each other throughout the restaurant proper and decided the bar was probably a better deal. She settled me into a small table in the corner of the bar and left me with a menu and drink list.
I settled on a lovely bottle of Cabernet Franc from Argentina and a ten-ounce filet mignon, medium-rare, with grilled onions for dinner. There was no rush for the evening so I languished over my steak and ordered a Malbec for my second bottle of wine. Sitting back with my eyes half-closed, sipping the wine, I heard footsteps approach my table, heels from the sounds on the slate floor of the bar. The sound was followed closely by the smell of hydrangeas and cloves in a delicate musk back scent. Even in my self-pitying state, this mixture of senses signaled me to open my eyes and find their source.
The source was a youngish woman walking towards my table. She seemed vaguely familiar, but in my defense wine and the rather revealing little black dress that the woman was wearing dulled my senses. I continued to try and focus on the woman's features, eyes, lips, ears; trying to put a name to the face as the woman came forward and smiled a smile that would light up any man's heart, wine or not.
"Doctor Edwards is that you? Yeah I thought so. How are you doing?"
Lisa, that was the name. A student from my undergraduate seminar a few semesters back: smart, convincing in an argument, and eager to go somewhere in life. "Lisa, umm, sorry the last name escapes me."
"Wilkins, Lisa Wilkins. I am surprised you even remember me Doctor Edwards..."
"Please, you aren't a student anymore Lisa, you can call me Thomas." Yeah, the wine was definitely getting the better of me. Lisa had been a slightly nontraditional student, but she still wasn't within a decade of my age. She definitely was not within the familiar first name range.
"Okay, Thomas. I saw you across the bar and thought it was you. Do you mind if I have a seat, I just blew off my date."
"Please" I got up (with a little wobble) to pull out the opposite seat. "I guess the date was a dud." Lisa sat down with the grace of a woman familiar to heels, sliding into the seat while crossing her legs demurely.
