The Half-Way Point

We're a little over half way through the month, and I've certainly neglected my plan to continue chronicling the process here. Not surprising though, since I've been trying to keep up about a 2000 word a day output on the novel.

I'm at about 30,000 words, as of last night, which is just about on target. I changed course a little bit last week, when it occurred to me to have Ian return to Tara's life, and stay the course of her illness with her. This of course brings her into conflict with Anne, who has never quite forgiven Tara for her infidelity, which she felt led to the breakup of her parents marriage. I've just come to that point in the story now...


I didn’t tell Ian the whole story about the cancer until the next morning. I wanted us to have one glorious night together, one chance to enjoy everything about our reunion – body, mind, and spirit – without the specter of illness hanging over our heads. As the flames of the fire burned down, the flames within our hearts began to smolder and ignite, until soon we were wrapped in each others arms, so filled with warmth from the love that had returned to us, that we felt as if we could never be cold again.

How marvelous is the physical union between two people who share a meeting of the minds, as well as of the body. That’s what makes sex a marvel, dear Samantha. As you pass through your teen years, your hormones raging, it doesn’t seem to matter whether the spiritual connection is there, as long as the flesh is willing (which it always seems to be at that age!) As you get older, though, it’s the passion of the spirit that sparks passion in the body, and sex isn’t the same without that connection.

So, we definitely had our night, and after that I was sure that he was with me for better or worse. Of course, I loathed the fact that I had to tell him I was seriously ill, that in a matter of three weeks, my body would slide through a huge magnetic tube which would resonate images of my insides showing all the cancerous areas glowing brightly on the technicians computer screen. These pictures of the battlefield that was my body would show how much cancer had been destroyed by the chemotherapy, and how much remained, lying in wait, and ready to go in for the ultimate victory. I hated the fact that when he twined his fingers in my hair, his hands sometimes came away filled with strands of it, or that when I laughed a little too hard- which was so easy to do with him around! - I got horrible fits of coughing that left me breathless and totally exhausted. I hated that my once flat abdomen was now pouchy and tender, and that sometimes the weight of his body on mine was more painful than pleasurable.

For all those reasons, I hated to tell him – but, tell him I did. I suppose it was selfish of me to let him spend even one night with me, to even bring him home with me. I should have told him right there in the church, and sent him on his way, back to his safe life in Toronto, where his friends were healthy and had long lives ahead of them. But, forgive me dear Samantha, I seem to be nothing if not completely selfish where this man is concerned. I wanted to be with him once again, if only for one night.

“We must talk,” I said to him the next morning. We had finally gotten up and dressed – of course he had to put his tux pants and shirt back on, and it was strange to see his touseled hair and scruffy beard with the still sharp creases of his white shirt and crisp black trousers. I smiled and handed him some tea.

“What – no coffee?” he asked, surprised.

“I know you don’t drink coffee,” I answered, pouring tea into my own mug as well. “And I’m a bit off it myself these days.”

“I never thought I’d see the day you didn’t rise to a cup of coffee first thing in the morning,” he laughed. “You must be really sick!”

I didn’t answer his joking remark, knowing he was soon going to regret this attempt at humor.

“You are, aren’t you?” he said quietly.

“Yes,” I replied. “I’m afraid I am.”

Ian sat in silence while I told him the whole story – the diagnosis coming from nowhere, the intense round of chemotherapy, the waiting now to find out if had halted, or at least contained, the march of this enemy through my system. When I finished, he leaned over and put his head in his hands. “Dear God, my darlin’ girl…” he whispered, barely able to go on.

“I am determined to think positively about this,” I said, as strongly and defiantly as I could manage. “I have read countless articles about the power of positive thinking in defeating cancer and other illnesses. You know I’m not a quitter, Ian,” I went on. “I will fight this tooth and nail!”

“And I’ll be here with you,” he said quietly. “Nothing will keep me away from you now.”

I laughed ruefully. “You have no idea what you’re saying,” I said. “You cannot stay here with me for the next however long it takes! Who knows what’s coming next? No, you have a life and a job in Toronto – you cannot just abdicate it all.”

“What life? I have a tiny apartment on Yonge Street where I go to take a shower and change my clothes. I eat most of my meals at the deli or the pub, I spend most of my time at the Hall, or at the University teaching. There are plenty of flutists out there subbing who can finish this season for me, and, after that, well, I’ll start looking for auditions around here.”

Continued protest appeared to be futile – he was determined, dear Samantha, I’ll have to give him that. And, to be totally honest, I surely wanted him to stay, wanted it with all my energy and strength.

So, it’s been decided, apparently. Ian will move in here with me and help me get through whatever happens next.

Now comes the really hard part…telling Anne Elizabeth.

Love endlessly,
TT