While his dad was fighting a tough battle with cancer, a boy’s text messages allowed him to distract himself and then something else
I never would have imagined that some text messages would be my saviors in the most difficult stage of my life .
I chose my college based on first impressions from people in my school ‘s Accepted Students Facebook group. A blonde guy commented on my introduction post that he also liked one of my favorite artists, and my friend told me that was proof enough: if there is one, there are sure to be more.
My father thought that making a decision based on “first impressions” was a bit silly, but he supported my decision. That was on our trip to New Hampshire in August, when he told me about his freshman year of college and all the nicknames his new friends gave him. He was very excited for me. That’s when he found out he had pancreatic cancer, so we started spending more time together.
My freshman year of college, during the first year of the pandemic, was horrible and isolating, but I tried to make the best of it; my classes were online, and I was fueled by mushy food bought from the cafeteria that I ate on my bedroom floor with my two friends. I felt guilty about being away from my father and I didn’t even enjoy it.
That spring, I used Tinder for a few weeks because I was embarrassed that I hadn’t experienced Big Love yet. I gave a like to the profile of that blonde boy. We had a dry exchange about our hometowns, and then we stopped talking; I forgot who didn’t reply to whom.
The summer was full of baseball games with my father and days at the beach where I almost forgot I was sick. But the summer ended and I went back to school.
In the fall of my sophomore year, COVID restrictions were relaxed. I killed time in coffee shops. I saw the blond boy in front of the library when he was on the phone and again in the dining room while his friend put on a Taylor Swift song. I went out to parties in skimpy tops. I saw him selling records on the patio for his radio show and laughed at a joke he told while clumsily trying to sell a record to someone else.
I called my father, who was recovering from a major unsuccessful operation, and told him that my classes gave me vertigo. He was glad. I wanted him to be in school, so I did, knowing that he had my mother close by. Although they were divorced, she had been by his side since his diagnosis.
But then Thanksgiving came around, and he was hospitalized. It became clear that the stage of dealing with the situation one day at a time now had a time limit. There was nothing left but palliative care. I took care of the endings remotely and booked a flight home to hold his hand.
My life became spending time with my father and also waiting for him to die. I crushed ice, filled syringes and watched him sleep. I listened as my mother directed her nurses and talked to my sister, whispering to each other about where my father’s cat would go. I ate more takeout and ramen than I did in college. I scratched my face. The four of us watched movies, listened to music, made jokes and cried a lot. I did not sleep. Everything was consuming.
On the eve of Christmas Eve, I posted a song that I liked on my Instagram story. I felt dishonest posting something so insignificant; he was supposed to be in an early duel. That blond boy from the radio show responded by saying he liked the song and asked what he was doing.
"I’m watching a movie ," I replied. I didn’t mention the hospital bed in front of the TV.
He told me about his family traditions, which sounded great; They seemed like things my family used to do.
I was worried that each message would be the last. And then I would have to sit by my father’s bed and fill syringes and adjust pillowcases and cry without distraction. I felt horrible shame that I had cushioned the pain of her two months of hospice care with a flirty text message. But our messages made me laugh.
When my father died, I was showered with condolences. The radio guy was the only person I responded to. Something about an article I’d read, the new Big Thief single, or whatever nonsense we could think of. He sent me a voice note to tell me a story too long to text, and if calling him didn’t feel like breaking some texting rule, I would have done so right then and there just to hear more of his voice.
The guy from the radio asked me to go out for coffee when we got back to campus. It would be a week and a day after my father’s death. I flew back to school, armed with photos and memorabilia from my father’s house, including a jacket of his that I had taken during one last hurried search for essential souvenirs.
I stayed in the bathroom for ten minutes before our date to go get coffee and felt like throwing up. I was worried about the sound of my voice and the pimple on my forehead. But we sat there sipping lattes for three hours, and I liked the way he laughed. Leaving the cafe, I looked at my father’s coat and noticed that the zipper was broken. The only coat I had for winter was my dead father’s and it was torn.
I told the radio guy it was broken and he asked me why I was wearing it then. I had no answer. We didn’t hug, but we stood outside the cafeteria for another half hour as I shivered.
Our first kiss was on the third date during a snow storm. She had been hesitant to kiss him because that would mean she was starting something she stood to lose. Days later, I told him that I was terrified to go out with him because my father had just died and everything scared me.
I think he had no idea what to say, but he told me he was fine. He told me he was sorry. Then he said something to make me laugh.
Everything about him felt light, like he was taking me by the hand and leading me into a world where people didn’t die and everything was interesting. But I didn’t feel in my world, so I stood there, torn. I needed my pain, but I couldn’t take it either.
My mother is devotion in person. She was the one who was with my father at every doctor’s appointment, the one who sat with him at every hospital, the one who made him laugh, the one who held his hand. My parents ended up reuniting just in time to lose each other. While we were cleaning out my father’s basement, she told me that I should marry someone I could laugh with. He said that’s what he always had with my father.
The radio guy started showing up everywhere, and I started looking for him. Between class and class, he appeared to say hello and accompany me to the next one. He would bring me the best focaccia on campus or we would go for coffee. He played guitar for me in his bedroom, because, of course, that guy plays guitar, and I listened, painfully aware that we were both following the pattern of a recurring idea, and wondering if it all felt too good.
I worry about precipitating my pain, rushing it, gluing together the parts of me that have cracked so I can continue, trying to be "the same as before" and realizing that it doesn’t exist. I’m worried that someone like this boy I love will be careless and I’ll fall to pieces.
My pain doesn’t seem right to me; it’s a little blurry when i look at it in the mirror. He is not dressed in black, but he is wearing my boyfriend’s sweatshirt. My sorrow is imagining the way my father would make fun of my boyfriend’s name; I’d ask him about his favorite band and tell him not to hurt me. My sorrow will be missing my father for the rest of my life and he will nudge me every time something is good, telling me to worry, because anything can wither.
When I was meeting the guy from the radio, there was a thunderstorm in the middle of the night, and I hate thunder. He told me he wasn’t going anywhere, which made me feel safe and a little sick. Although I was scared and wanted him to be there, I still felt that I was more cautious than he was. It seemed to me that he had no right to tell me that he would be there with me. Nothing was certain, and that was worse than thunder.
But so far it hasn’t gone anywhere. I’m home for the summer and I miss him as much as we FaceTime each other. We already told our mothers about us. I know he orders a spiced chai tea when he needs to study. He’s seen me fold clothes and I’m still terrified of loss.