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Fiction Short Story

by Susanne Shaphren

These Last Days with Jerry

TUESDAY. There is no Monday because I refuse to acknowledge that cruel twenty-four-hour year. Let the week begin on this bright sunny morning and please, God, give me strength. I need no clock to remind me of time, no hurried phone call to confirm visiting hours. I slip on the much too expensive dress Jerry gave me last Valentine's Day and allow an extra ten minutes to find a parking place.

Two blocks out of my way to avoid the sight of the emergency entrance that is so integral a part of that day I have tried in vain to obliterate. A waste of time as I can never forget the agony on Jerry's face when he finally yielded to the necessity of another trip to the hospital. One last trip? There is too much honesty in this grim triangle of doctor, patient, and patient's wife to expect anything more.

Jerry is asleep. A few more minutes to get accustomed to the awful feeling of being alone, more time to think and rethink how it might have been different.

From that first awkward blind date, it was painfully obvious Jerry was the licorice that kept getting shoved to the bottom of the candy dish of life. And I . . . well, to hear my mother tell it, I could have done so much better.

Who knows? In the beginning, I might have agreed with her. Maybe there was more pity than love in the impulse that said yes when Jerry proposed.

If I had been the loving, conscientious bride, I would have said something—insisted that Jerry see a doctor—when I accidentally felt that lump. But to me, it was just one more insignificant blemish serving as a constant reminder that Jerry must have been shoved in a corner the day God created Brad Pitt and Sean Connery.

The pitiful stranger in the hospital bed looks old enough to be my father. The disease that will eventually claim his life and the chemotherapy that has tried so desperately to save it have conspired to do the job of aging that decades normally do. Jerry and I have promised each other we would be honest about this, but it's impossible for me to acknowledge that skin and bones monument to pain is my husband. Whenever Jerry looks into my eyes, he will see that one luxury of a lie I permit myself: the Jerry that he used to be, not so very handsome, but young and vital, each cell pulsating with the sheer joy of being alive.

Our visit is short and almost totally void of words. He asks if there is any news about his manuscript. I shake my head and say it's a good sign that it's been out so long. Then we just sit, my hand resting in his.

We've used up almost all of the words . . . my angry cuss words at the beginning when I berated Jerry for not having enough self-worth to damn God for His cruelty, the soft begging words of bartering our past sins and transgressions for a better future life in exchange for a miracle, the hard firm practical words of wills and plans for "after."

I've read the books; I know that all too soon there will be no words at all. This is the stage known as acceptance. Well, I have not accepted. I will not accept!

WEDNESDAY. Again there is nothing in the mail to shatter Jerry's last dream. His novel is on a stranger's desk where it's being read, and if there's any justice in this world, receiving the acceptance its author hasn't found in his all-too-brief life.

Everything I see and hear tells me Jerry is worse, but my heart insists his color is a little better, his voice a little stronger. Dr. Carlyle has prepared us for the worst, but it will be good news he brings today . . . new medication, new hope.

No medication other than narcotics to dull the pain. No hope.

I tell Jerry there is still no word on his novel and linger only moments before escaping from the stark reality of what is happening slowly but very surely.

THURSDAY. A day so beautiful, the news has to be good. I stop at the florist's and persuade him to sell me a single long-stemmed rose. It's a silly, sentimental gesture that only Jerry can understand and appreciate.

At first glance, I actually believe Jerry has rallied enough to justify my wishful thinking. But it is not to be. By noon, I have been banished from his room so the white-coated witch doctors and their tight-lipped assistants can perform their black magic rituals with tubes, needles and strange whirring machines.

A pale, nervous woman slightly over forty and well overweight shares my vigil in the small waiting room at the end of the hall. She prays for it to be over soon, has a mental timetable that she ticks aloud: If her husband lives one more day, there will be no summer camp for the youngest child; two more, and the middle child will have to return to a public school, and on and on, until a few more pitiful days of sustained life equate with the deprivation of the eldest son's college education. I, too, want the pain to be silenced once and for all, but not for a savings of money.

Perhaps that is the blessing of being young enough to believe it could never happen to you and yet just cynical enough to spend a little more for major medical coverage. Maybe it's fortunate there are no children to be deprived of summer camp, exclusive education and tell me, Mrs. Cash Register, what is the monetary value of a father's love and guidance? God, isn't this young bitch self-righteous tonight? She who spoke vows of love without ever knowing the meaning of the words until it was already much too late.

Tomorrow, I'll be the interested bystander in Jerry's war against the inevitable. Tomorrow, I'll fight all these battles of guilt with myself. Tonight, I've got to get home while it's still safe for me to drive.

FRIDAY. The mailman leaves a small mountain of bills, a letter from some third cousin twice removed, and Jerry's manuscript. I haven't cried once since this nightmare began months ago, but I can't stop the tears flowing down my cheeks as I scan another standard 'doesn't meet our present needs' rejection slip. Rewrapped, addressed to the next publisher on Jerry's list and bearing stamps from end to end, the manuscript is ready to be sent. Tears dried and camouflaged by make-up, I am as ready as I will ever be to mail it and to see Jerry.

From the moment the elevator doors wheeze open and deposit me in front of the nurse's station on 7-East, I know I'll never go through these motions of what has become daily ritual again.

Maybe it's too quiet today, or too noisy, too many technicians bustling in and out of Room 712, or too few, woman's intuition or plain old fear. I just know.

Forcing myself not to run, I take small, even steps toward Jerry's room and open the door, willing myself not to smell the alcohol, disinfectant, and almost tangible stench of impending death.

My eyes see a figure every bit as attractive as Brad Pitt, not a pasty, white, stubbornly breathing corpse, and by God, Jerry gets a kiss powerful enough to prove it. In return, he squeezes my hand as tightly as he can; I feel not the slightest pressure.

Inside, I am sobbing, drowning in tears, but my cheeks are dry as I force myself to credibly imitate a smile in anticipation of Jerry's question.

"Any mail?" he manages after exerting the effort of a man delivering twenty minutes of fiery oratory.

"You, sir, are looking at the wife of a promising young author whose book has just been accepted by one of this country's leading publishers."

No, not a lie told out of pity, but a promise made out of love. Jerry's novel will be published. After.

Copyright © 2004 Susanne Shaphren

About the Author
The author is a native of Phoenix, Arizona. Her first nationally published fiction was a Fiction Award Story in Weight Watchers (in the good old days when they printed fiction.) This story, "These Last Days with Jerry," first appeared in Green's Magazine. Susanne's articles and fiction have appeared in an eclectic alphabet soup of U.S. and Canadian publications including: Authorship, Better Communication, Children's Playmate, Delta Scene, Futures and The Writer.