“So lay all your troubles down, 'Cause I am with you now, Lay them down on me”

He held their hands as he spoke his truth. The time had come. He was ready to surrender and accept his terminal diagnosis. The cancer had taken too much from him and exhausted his will to fight. I heard him and nodded approvingly. He had given so much already. The treatments battered his frail body. He wasted away until there was little left. It was the best decision for his tired soul. It just shattered the hearts of those who loved him.

Recovering from the pain was nearly as traumatizing as accepting his condition. Once functional, I couldn’t look back in the same way. My memories were glossed over like an allergy commercial. The protective shield both helped and hindered me.

When a significantly less traumatizing series of moments happened this past summer, my mental and emotional competence took a proverbial bullet that was eerily familiar. It started slowly, much like learning he hadn’t been feeling well. Then came the word “cancer.” A foreign word. A bad word.

When I step into and traipse through inches of water covering the carpeted and cement floor, for the first time in early July, it’s intimidating. We run two shop vacuums, multiple fans, and a dehumidifier for days, then weeks. After the third flood in fourteen days, we realize it will get worse before better. Begrudgingly, we tear out the wall-to-wall carpet. We see the cracks that are beneath. One in particular is deep and runs the width of the house. Nausea sets in. We know it’s bad. I call nearly a dozen basement waterproofing companies asking for estimates and consultations. The soonest someone can come is September.

“Stage four pancreatic cancer. It has already spread to his stomach and liver. I estimate he has six months to a year,” his oncologist said. I felt sick, like a sucker punch knocked the air out of my lungs, and paralyzed. Unable to focus, I couldn’t comprehend what had been said but set forth on a new course of action – make his dreams come true. Naïvely, I reached out to his favorite musicians Billy Joel and Paul Simon asking them to meet him. I baked and shipped him oatmeal raisin cookies, his favorite, and began working on a scrapbook that documented his life.

During floods four and five, Hurricanes Henri and Ida, we watch water literally seep in from the newly-discovered cracks. Immense restlessness and utter helplessness sets in. Thousands of other moods and emotions vainly try to take the lead. None of them win.

We watched him waste away. A strapping man of two-hundred thirty pounds lost a third of his weight in a month. He lost interest in food as he said it tasted burnt or salty. His voice lost its oompf and his body lost its balance. He slept a lot and said the hefty painkillers only took the edge off.

Vacuum and dump water. He vacuums, pushes the full bin to me. I dump it in our downstairs half bathroom. I wear a weight-lifting belt, scoop out water with a metal bowl, and pour it into the toilet. When it’s lighter, I lift, remembering to bend at the knees, and pour the remaining contents. Sometimes I move quickly, eager to empty the container before he returns with the other full shop vac. Sometimes I do. We clean up an estimated three-thousand gallons of water from flood five.

He was his best self in the early mornings. He sat at the kitchen table, a mug of steaming black coffee in front of him, but it was just for show. He was talkative. Alive. I had set an alarm specifically for this purpose and raced down the stairs to be with him. We talked about the day ahead, like everything was normal.

We accept the monstrosity that is the basement and in a moment of desperation, realize we haven’t counted our blessings. After all, doesn’t every kid want an in-ground, in-house swimming pool? We joke about the inaugural pool party we can host. We can rent a wave machine and invite our friends to bring their favorite floaties.

As the day ticked on, he slipped away. His spirit left. His body remained. His personality was that of a stranger who was in constant agony.

The electric bill arrives. It’s twice the normal amount. A foul odor is emitted from the floor below. Mold is visible on every surface downstairs and some has creeped upstairs.

His soul wrestled between this world and the next. We cried. All the time. But not in front of him. Never in front of him.

Our bodies are slumped. Our spirits beaten. The seemingly perfect house hid a dark secret. We cherished the area deeming it “the sexiest room in the house.” It served as a yoga studio, home gym, Brandycave, hangout, and guest suite. The door leading to it was an entrance to our own Narnia.

A hospice nurse evaluates his condition. His body had another week. Our hearts dropped. It was too much.

Two basement waterproofing companies see the basement and offer solutions at a costly expense. The details are flabbergasting. We make a harrowing decision and sign on a dotted line. My brain implodes. I don’t know if it’s literal or figurative.

Finally, the day came. He let go. It had been six months and two weeks after diagnosis. Nine years ago this month.

Our day is two weeks away.