Zach & Zelda

Zelda : [It’s 11:37 PM. We’ve only been in bed for a short time, but Zach and I have both fallen into a deep sleep: The kind where you wake up and you swear you’ve had your eyes closed for hours. But when you check the clock, you’ve only been out for a few minutes. We’re both awake now. Zach rolls onto his side and sighs.] Zach : It’s a soaker. Zelda : What? Zach : I’m drenched. In a pool of sweat. A soggy mess. Zelda : You’re my soggy mess. [I'm clearly only half awake and barely processing what Zach's saying.] Zach : I feel like crap. I need to dry the fuck off. [He sits up on the edge of the bed and turns his head from side to side.] It’s running into my ears! [Giggles] How can my body be drenched in sweat and my mouth be as dry as a desert?  [Zach goes into the bathroom to towel off. When he comes back out, I slide out of bed instinctively. I see what he was talking about: The blanket where he was laying has a Zach-shaped wet spot. Even in the half-light of the bedroom, I c...

[ Zelda ]: I sometimes tell myself I write this blog to make sense of Zach’s cancer diagnosis. But that’s bullshit. No matter how much I write, it will never make sense. What cancer does is heinous, cruel, grotesque, evil. Fuck a bunch of cancer. Even if I could make sense of it, writing won’t get me the answers I want: How do we stop the cancer growing in Zach’s bones? How do we fix the damage it’s done? Words alone won't lead to a cure. And I want to be clear: I’m not writing to garner sympathy. Although I admit, it’s sometimes cathartic to itemize all the ailments, treatments, transgressions, and side effects and parade them around like trophies from a competition. A really dark competition that no one wants to win. No, sympathy only feeds a sense of entitlement and vindication. It might make you feel better for a second or 2, but it keeps you down for the count. And I’m not ready to stay down. So let me tell you why I write.  I write to sort out feelings At times, I feel hopefu...

Zelda : [I’m in my office, and I hear Zach in our bedroom across the hall. He’s struggling with something. Turns out, he's sitting on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed trying to pull on compression socks. It ain't workin'.] Zach : Come on, you can do it, get in there. [Grunts] Are you kidding me? What are you doing? [More grunting] Listen, fuckface, I’m not gonna tell you again. Get it together.  Zelda : [I’m relieved his frustration isn't aimed at me. This time.] Talking to yourself? Zach : Talking to my body. Zelda : Why? Zach : It talks to me all the time. Zelda : Sounds like you’re arguing with protesters. Zach : My whole body's on strike today. It’s telling me, “Stop it! Stop moving! Stand still!” Zelda : Are you listening? Zach : Nope. Zelda : My hero! Zach : Yesterday, my knee was feeling pretty good, so I did some squats. Zelda : Uh oh... Zach : I know. Fucked that up. I learn how far to push it by how I feel the next day, that’s for sure. Zelda : [ Zac...