I Met a Dying Man

Part 1

I met a man at my secret pond last Thursday. He’s dying of pancreatic cancer. There’s a gravelly beach at this secret pond, and a gravelly port scar on the upper right side of my chest. When I wear a bikini the scar is very visible.

“I’ve got one of those,” he motions to his chest, upper right side. I was packing up my beach things when he approached, and through his white rash guard, three distinctive braille-like bumps in the shape of a triangle emerge. They’re positioned so nurses can palpate the correct spot to insert the IV through which chemo is delivered.

“Well shit.” I smile. “Can I ask what kind?”

“Pancreatic.”

I’m not known to those who love me as someone able to pretend very well or at all. My face is usually the first to reveal my internal experience. The features must’ve expressed something quite dramatic.

“I know,” he chuckles. “What about you?”

“Lymphoma, twice. But it’s been over a decade now. And if you’re gonna get cancer, you want Hodgkins Lymphoma—it responds very well to treatment. We don’t have to talk about cancer.”

“No, there’s nobody else in my life I can talk to about this. It makes me feel calm, you make me feel calm.”

The truth is, I noticed when this man floated through the hidden entrance an hour earlier, and I had trouble ignoring his presence. I do not come to this pond to chat with strangers, I come here for quiet. I come here because I feel love here. And for some reason, my heart opened to his from afar.

On the journey back to the parking lot, he confessed something similar, but it had more to do with my bikini and body and eyes, and less about the energetic ties I had sensed. He is in his 60s (which you must have deduced because he has pancreatic cancer), an engineer. I made a joke about how I can add him to the list of engineers who love my bikinis, and my eyes.

He’s dying. So am I. So are you. Each and every one of us.

We take turns asking questions and laughing. He wants to know how he can find the peace and joy he feels radiating from my smile. I want to know what kind of engineer he is. He wants to know how long it took for me to feel like myself again after treatment. I ask about his water craft and if he likes the design of his paddle.

“How hold are your children?” He doesn’t believe me when I tell him, “there’s no way you have a thirteen year-old! Mine are in their mid to late twenties.” We gaze up into the trees, green—finally.

The dying man continues. “And how long have you known about that little pond!? I just happened to see that clearing. If I had been looking the other direction I would’ve missed it. I would’ve missed you! And this wonderful morning!”

Hours pass somehow, and we’ve reached our asphalted destination. He doesn’t want to go. I don’t want to either.

We stall. And stall. “I’d like to see you again.”

“Me, too. How about this, if we run into each other again…”

I’ve made a dying man sad, but he agrees to my proposal. It felt good leaving it in God’s hands.

“You know, I’ve died already.” I blurt out. “Cytokine storm, graft v. host when they injected stem cells back into me. It only felt scary for a split second, when I heard my husband’s loud voice trying to get doctors and nurses to tell him what was going on during the frenzy.”

We’re both tearing up.

“And here’s what I want you to know. Okay? The events of that night aren’t even on the top three list of worst things that’ve happened to me.” I can feel our bodies want to be nearer so I inch a little closer. “The scarier and harder thing, if you ask me, is enduring a life. Not losing it.”

I believe he wants to kiss me at this point, I wouldn’t protest. I begin to scoot my paddle board back into the water. “I’m parked in a different lot. And I need to get home.”

“It was a miracle, meeting you. Thank you.” He waves.

I wave back. My smile is large and true, my face always gives it away.