The IV drip was my constant companion. The steady drip, drip, drip was the soundtrack to my new life.
When the doctor first said the words, Mark held my hand. I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and in the beginning, he played the role of the supportive husband perfectly. He was there when they wheeled me into the operating room. He stayed for the surgery, pacing the waiting room, accepting sympathy from our friends.
But cancer isn’t a movie montage. It’s ugly. It’s messy.
When the chemo made me lose my hair and get sick, he checked out.
He stopped holding my hand. He started sighing when I needed help to the bathroom. He started wearing his noise-canceling headphones to drown out the sound of me vomiting. He looked at my bald head not with love or sadness, but with a vague sense of distaste, as if I were a piece of abstract art he didn’t care for.
Then came today. I was sitting in the infusion chair, the poison running into my veins to save my life. Mark walked in. He wasn’t carrying flowers. He wasn’t carrying a blanket. He was carrying a manila envelope.
He placed it on the tray table next to my biohazard bag.
He served me divorce papers in the oncology ward.
I stared at the bold letters. “Now?” I whispered. “Mark, I’m literally plugged into a machine.”
He adjusted his sunglasses, looking everywhere but at my eyes.
“‘I can’t handle the depression,’” he said, his voice devoid of guilt. “This environment… it’s just really heavy, you know? It’s bringing me down.”
I looked around at the nurses fighting death, at the patients clinging to hope. “It’s cancer, Mark. It’s not supposed to be a party.”
“I know,” he shrugged. “But I need to protect my energy. ‘I need positive vibes.’“.
Positive vibes. He was trading his sick wife for a mantra he probably saw on a coffee mug. He checked his watch, eager to escape the sterile air and the reality of my mortality.
“I have a reservation in twenty minutes,” he muttered, inching toward the door.
He left me fighting for my life so he could go to brunch.
He walked out of the hospital to drink mimosas and bask in the sunlight, leaving me alone in the cold fluorescent glow. I realized then that to him, my survival was optional, but his comfort was mandatory. He didn’t want a wife; he wanted a mood board, and I no longer fit the aesthetic.
