Page 74 of Look on the Bright Side

They all hugged, long and hard, and finally parted ways.

Lark and Justin headed to the Common. “I’m in the mood for ice cream,” he said.

“Same,” she said, though she was lying. They got their cones—strawberry for her, chocolate chunk for him—and found a bench near the fountain.

“Let’s get married right now,” Lark said abruptly. “Today. We’ll go to city hall. They’re still open.”

Justin blinked at her. “Um…no. Absolutely not. Why? You don’t think I’ll make it? Jesus, Lark. You have to believe in me.” There was anger in his voice, rare and sharper because of it.

“I do believe in you,” she said. “I do, honey. I just…I just want to be your wife through this.”

He looked away. “You’ll be my wife after. I’m going to live, Lark. This life is too beautiful to even think about anything else. I want the big fancy wedding and I want to see you in a white dress and have your whole family there, and all my midwestern cousins and our friends. It’ll be all the better because I beat leukemia again. This is just a bump in the road.”

She felt ice run down her spine. “We can do the big wedding later. I promise, I’d feel like I won the lotto if we got married right now. Hand to God, Justin. Please.”

“No,” he said firmly. “We’re getting married in December. Wear white.”

“Justin—”

“No!” Then he rolled his neck, sighed and kissed her hand. “I won’t leave you, Lark. We’ll get through this. Positive thinking only. I mean it.”

She could’ve fought him on that. Later, she’d think she should’ve fought him. But for now, she knew he needed her faith. If he thought he could make it, she had to think that, too.

“Red Sox, 2004,” she said, taking his hand and sliding her fingers between his. His face relaxed. “Obviously, I’m moving in with you,” she said. “It’s me, or your mother.”

“It’s you. It’s always you. Always has been, always will be.”

His words made her heart quadruple in size. Even now, even on this horrible day, he could make her feel like the only woman on the planet. God, she loved him.

Strangely enough, Lark didn’t cry. For once, she didn’t cry. It was as if her tear ducts had been removed. She called Addie that night, because Addie knew something was off and had been texting and calling. In as few words as possible, she told her sister the news, asked Addie to tell the rest of the family immediately. Then she set up a group text so she could update everyone simultaneously and said she appreciated their love and prayers and told them she and Justin were feeling really optimistic. And also, please communicate only through this group text or Addie, because she was going to be too busy to respond individually for the next few months.

The rest of the week was spent going to the hospital lab for radiology and more blood work, a detailed CAT scan, back to Dr.Kothari’s office, over to another doctor’s office, to the surgical center for a spinal tap. Oncologists from every specialty—radiation, surgical, medical, hematologic—all weighed in. Lark quit her job, apologizing that she couldn’t give more notice.

Dana-Farber incorporated holistic treatments into its battle plans, so acupuncture, yoga, meditation, tai chi, strength training, music therapy were added to a strict calendar. Lark stocked the kitchen with organic food, tossed the cleaning products and bought nontoxic stuff instead. The smell of Windex made her sick to her stomach now, anyway, memories of Dr.Kothari cleaning up Heather’s vomit so humbly.

When Justin was at work—because he was going to keep working, isolated, wearing a mask—she and Addie took the day off and cleaned his apartment with the new stuff, washed all the clothes, sheets and towels. As if that would slow the leukemia. But no, no, everything could help. She had to stay positive. Busy and positive.

“How are you?” Addie asked after four hours, and Lark just shook her head, blinking. Addie nodded, understanding that if the dam cracked, it would crumble. Lark’s dam would hold, by God. She, champion weeper, would not cry. She wouldn’t be scared. She’d believe Justin would beat this. Hell, yes, she would. He had before. He would again. Period.

She went with him to every appointment and kept a notebook, taking copious notes broken down by doctor, specialty, treatment, medications, side effects, the medications to combat the side effects. She ran his schedule, talked optimistically to his bosses, who said he could do as much or as little as he wanted, and messaged their friends. She filed claims with the insurance company, talked to the asshole administrators who denied this treatment or that medication, and won every time. The Deans were well off, but she’d be damned if the insurance company would get off the hook.

She planned their meals for the next two weeks to minimize the number of times she’d need to go grocery shopping. She talked to Heather and Theo a few times every day, had them over as much as possible and didn’t go home to the Cape. There was no time for that.

Positive affirmations were written with a thick Sharpie pen and taped up everywhere, not the normal, smarmy stuff, but lines from movies they loved. From Band of Brothers, Justin’s favorite book and TV show, They hadn’t come here to fear. They hadn’t come to die. They had come to win. From the Avengers, I can do this all day, spoken by Captain America. From Lord of the Rings, I can’t carry it, but I can carry you, the words spoken by sweet Samwise Gamgee when Frodo collapses at Mount Doom. At dawn, look to the east. Helm’s Deep had seemed to be an unwinnable battle, and yet, on the morning of the fifth day, in rode Gandalf on his beautiful white horse, and they won. They won, goddamn it.

After that initial tremor, she banished the idea that Justin would die. He was strong, and as he said, he’d beaten leukemia once. He could do it again. That six-month prognosis…that was for other people. Older people, people who were more frail or had other health issues or were simply less determined to live. Justin would not go meekly into that dark night, no way. He’d charge into the dawn, like Gandalf on Shadowfax.

Justin had surgery so they could implant a catheter in his brain to get the medicine to his central nervous system. To attack the leukemia in his spinal fluid, he had to lie in a fetal position while the doctors told him not to move and drove a needle into his spine. They dug out bone marrow from his hip, twisting the needle like a corkscrew as Justin tried not to scream (so much for the Xylocaine shots that were supposed to help). And because his bone marrow was also invaded by the leukemia, he needed oral chemo as well, which took away his sense of taste.

That was just in the first ten days.

When the team of doctors, PAs, nurse practitioners and nurses learned that Lark wanted to be a doctor (and had scored in the top 2 percent on the MCAT), they included her in the conversation and narrated the treatments and procedures, as if she were a colleague. They were so positive and upbeat—and so used to this—that it made it seem, for a little while, like this relapse wasn’t such a big deal after all.

“It’ll get worse before it gets better,” said one nurse, and that became their refrain.

The chemo brought on a book of Job type of suffering. When Justin vomited until his throat bled, she sat on the edge of the tub, a cold cloth against his neck, clinging to that phrase like it was a rope tossed into a stormy sea. She wrapped that thought around her hand and clenched it so hard she couldn’t feel anything else.

“It’ll be worth it,” Justin panted in between retching. “I’m sorry, Lark. But”—retch—“worse before better, right?”

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