[Ed. Note – Steve Stav’s wife and fellow journalist, Andrea Miller, died in October 2016 after breast cancer had reached her brain — ending a six-and-a-half year battle. In every way, Andrea was his Myrna Loy, his Elaine May, his Keely Smith. The sort of woman who graciously and cleverly made him think that he was in charge.]
You know you’ve got it written on your face when people stopped saying the things a long time ago, thankfully, that they felt obligated to say. Dead, but heart still beating. Ghostly; I call it “The Casper.” An acquaintance of mine recently suggested that I was her polar opposite when she said that the more she’s hurt, the more she fights back. Oh.
Saw the hot doctor again last week; she asked about my general well-being and I said if she were me, she’d be dead a long time ago. By her own hand, or by her god’s. Andrea marveled at my superhuman physiology; nothing to admire in my later years, but the genes are still working. Barely. I’m like my friend the possum; I absorb everything, and just get uglier for it. But mentally and emotionally, I am also a success story. A medal winner. No one with anything resembling my psyche and background would’ve survived nearly this long. No one. I guess that’s the boast allowed.
But I digress; I do fight. Every day, when the first thing on my mind is the disappointment of discovering that I’m still (technically) alive, awake in an empty King-sized bed. I am angry, I am furious at the monster who tortured and took the wrong person. Rage. Yes, there’s a selfish element here, but honestly the thing I wanted most for Andrea – the thing I expected for Andrea – was a long, happy life being the same, most amazing person I’d ever met. Everyone knew she was going to outlive me by decades.
This “time heals all wounds” horsesh*t – I think I’ll punch the next SOB who says that in the face. For me, it’s worked in reverse. Third year harder and more vivid than the second, and so on. This hasn’t been entirely bad; I remember more by the day, it seems, and I certainly don’t want to forget anything. Move forward? Be happy, as Andrea would’ve wanted? Sure; that sounds honestly great. What are you doing Friday night? I never go out anymore. Want to go out for a drink? Yeah, I thought so. It’s okay; I understand. But quit blowing smoke, eh?
This grace and beauty of dying… yeah, maybe if you’re 90, and die in your sleep as a few people I’ve known were lucky enough to do. Let’s give that sh*t a rest. The Reaper is a monster, and we should fear it. Sorry, BOC. And though he comes for everyone… that doesn’t make it less f*cked up. You have a better chance of getting a glimpse of the monster the closer you are to it, of course. Parents, grandparents, etc, etc… awful stuff. Spouses; god help you, children… if you see them being taken – well, you’ve definitely seen the monster. Especially when you get his calling cards of x-ray blotches and and screams in the night. You see that f*cker out of the corner of your eye. Come get me, you cocksucker. Don’t touch her, you sick f*cking coward. Don’t hurt my baby anymore. Take me.
Yeah, I fight. I’m angry that no matter what I do, I just get knocked down harder. I’m angry that all the pessimistic predictions I had have turned out to be more correct than previously thought. I’m angry at being alone in a cold house, encouraged by every possible source to quit. Every godforsaken day. The monster, the goddamn breast cancer… the gift that keeps on taking; death isn’t enough for it.
My hot doctor, all of 32 now, talked about going to endure a session with a psychiatrist again (my “problems” such as PTSD need to be further documented). I know I’m going, but I let my hesitation be known. The new shrink is maybe 30; not keen on spending time adding to his education, on my dime.
“Oh, but give him a chance. It’s the holidays, and you’re struggling.” She knows I won’t take a lobotomy-in-pill-form, and she knows that talking to some nodding head really pisses me the f*ck off. But I say, okay – but I will once again be right when I don’t want to be.
Psych scheduler calls me the next morning to set up an appointment. “Oh, he’s on vacation until Jan. 6, but we have openings in the New Year!” How f*cking obscene is that, eh? I wonder how many people swallow a bullet or a bottle of pills in December because their jackass shrink is in Cabo. Like he can’t wait until late January – or May – to get blown on a beach while sipping Mai Tais, while his patients are praying for death every time they see a f*cking Christmas tree.
I so hate being right about people, and about the maddening world. And I so hate being full of rage; being so impotent – then, and now. A furious cuckold who cries almost every day out of frustration, guilt, grief, terror. But I do fight. I’ve been a boxer all my life. Do not be mistaken about that.
