Déjà vu. Jerry and I sat apprehensively waiting for the doctor again . . .

We had sat in the same rigid seats just a month ago as Dr. Savvites explained that the growth on the base of Jerry’s tongue was cancerous. Stage IV. But we also learned there was stage IV A, B and C, and his was not only treatable, but odds highly favored a cure.

We dealt with all the preparations for treatment; dental work was done, his mask for radiation targeting fitted, I finagled as much time off work as possible, transportation was arranged, and we were prepared to fight his next battle for survival.

In just a few days, the first radiation and chemotherapy treatments will begin. We were surprised when Dr. Savvites requested a meeting. We played out several scenarios on our long drive to University Hospital. Perhaps surgery was now an option, and maybe the last tests showed some improvement. Maybe there was breaking news in research. We were both nervous and anxious. We had gained a reputation as odds beaters and expected no less in this situation.

In fact, we were planning to get the trike back on the road this summer. Jerry is a fighter, never one to roll over and accept anything without a challenge. When his MS compromised his balance on his motorcycle, he started riding a trike. As United Steel Workers’ union steward, he was always standing up for the little guy. Now he needed someone to stand beside him - me.

Thinking back, barely a year ago, Jerry was admitted to Altercare, a nursing facility for rehabilitation and care of the elderly. He arrived via what is now a common mode of transportation for us, ambulance. He rolled in on a gurney, after spending over a month at University Hospital, where he fought daily to survive. He was battling a condition called dermatomyositis, which strikes at the core of the body, weakening muscles and causing dysphasia; making it impossible for him to eat, let alone swallow his own saliva.

His body was consuming his own muscles and he lay there for weeks, unable to raise his hand to hold the one he loved or lift his head to look at me. Complicated by his MS, the disease ravaged his body. He had every symptom in the book. Medical students were ushered in and out of his room, photos and biopsies were taken, and his worsening condition perplexed the doctors. There was no Dr. House on staff.

Infections found his feeding tubes and IVs an open invitation and he was soon wracked with additional complications. Eventually he stabilized and was transported for further care. At Altercare, he was kept in isolation for weeks. We later learned from one of the admitting nurses that they thought he had simply been released from the hospital to die at their facility.

Little did they know that he would become an inspiration to other patients to work at recovery. His bed was draped with elastic bands; his attitude demanded recovery and he worked diligently to rebuild. He pushed himself to the limit each day, always the optimist. The therapists could measure his improvements daily.

Still unable to eat anything but pureed food, he watched the food channel religiously. He poured over Paula Dean cookbooks, starring recipes and planning meals he would cook when he came home.

After several marriages, Jerry had finally found his soul mate and we would not accept any option but coming home to grow old together. Like the sundial in the park where we walked said, “Come grow old with me, the best is yet to be.” (Robert Frost). Three months later, supported by his cane, Jerry walked out of Altercare and his soul mate drove him home.

Home to the new house he bought where we could garden and grow old together. The deal on the house closed just five days before he fell so deathly ill. While he was hospitalized, I merged our households. Our belongings fit seamlessly together, just like we did. Everything was as it should be.

Jerry was young for his 58 years, 6 feet tall – the perfect height to wrap a strong arm around my shoulder and hold me close as we walked, talked, or just stood together and watched our new garden grow. We started planting before the deal even closed.

A typical tough guy, a strong man with thick salt and pepper hair, an easy smile, and twinkling eyes that made you wonder what would happen next. He walked into my life on Memorial weekend. I worked at a top-notch garden center, Sabo’s Woodside Nursery, and Jerry loved to garden. I opened up on May 28 and there he sat, in his big blue truck, patiently waiting for the closed sign to be removed from the entrance.

I joked about the first customer of the day getting special attention and complimented his choice of plants, foxglove, now thriving in our new garden, bleeding hearts, and the ‘Jack Frost’ brunneria that I told him a “man with such discerning taste just must have.” He lingered, shopped, asked a lot of questions then left. But he popped back in to say, “My name is Jerry.” And then he was gone.

But not for long, the very next day he returned. He wandered about the perennials, looking lost and distracted, only half looking at the plants – and Sabo’s does grow fabulous plants. I knew something was up and hesitated to approach.

“What do you need today?” I finally asked.

He looked up with a shy smile and said, “Your phone number.”

I took a breath, assessed the situation as one I might not want to jump into just now, considering I was in the midst of a divorce from a 30 year marriage. “My husband doesn’t like me to give it out,” I answered.

I was immediately sorry. The anguish and disillusionment on his face was heartbreaking to witness. You would have thought I had whacked him across the belly with a 2 by 4, “I’m so sorry,” he stammered, “I didn’t see a ring, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” This mountain of a man was crumbling with a mere sentence.

He was just so sweet and apologetic that I soon found myself adding, “But I hired a divorce lawyer a couple months ago; keep in touch, we can just get to know each other and be friends while I get my life sorted out.”

Looking back, I now realize that was the very moment I booked passage on Jerry’s runaway love train. He stopped by several days a week, spending more on plants than he ever had before, and he was already quite the collector.

It is much easier to talk about moving slow than actually going slow, we quickly grew together emotionally; talking, emails, and texting paved the way for the commitment that followed. We learned much about each other in those first few months. We had certainly become friends, the kind of friends that it usually takes a lifetime to grow.

The day I stopped to see his garden, I discovered he lived across the street from where I had built my first greenhouse. I saw trees and vines I planted decades earlier, years before he moved in.

We discovered the parallel paths our lives had followed. Our youngest children were born one day apart, we went to the same college, took the same art classes from the same instructors, yet never met. Our collections meshed like one. How could it have taken us so long to find each other? No wonder we grew together so easily, we were meant to be. And finally we were. Being together was all there needed to be, it finished the day. All was right with the world again.

Having experienced a lifetime in just a year, we were prepared to commit to the future, marriage, travel, and building a garden together, let’s face it, when you get together in your fifties, it’s not to start a family.

And so it began; I’d set out a flowerbed and Jerry would say “Make it bigger.” I’d set out another and he would say “Make it bigger.” And so we did. Last fall we planted bulbs together, nearly 1,000! Spring was his favorite season.

The crocus have bloomed, daffodils are opening and tulips are showing color; spring is as full of promise as our relationship.

Today, we sit here waiting, it seems like an eternity, but it’s only been a few minutes. Fear creeps in; I think it lives in oncology clinics. Dr. Savvites and his nurse, Heather, greet us with sad eyes. I sense what will come and reach for Jerry’s hand.

“Jerry,” Dr. Savvites spoke soft and slow, “The test results are not what we had hoped for. The cancer has metastasized to your liver . . . radiation is no longer an option. We cannot treat the liver, and with your history of complications, well, our options are limited. The outlook is not good . . . “

Jerry met the doctor’s eye and said “Go ahead doc, you’re doing fine, it’s got to be as hard for you to say as it is for me to hear. Go on.”

“It looks like you may only have a few months, if chemo works, perhaps a year.”

There’s a numbness that fills your body when you hear news like this. We had been through so much already, and were so hopeful that this would be the last obstacle to Jerry’s return to health and a normal life. Our senses were dulled.

We left with heavy hearts, rambled through the galleries, taking the long way out of the hospital, distracted by the art and commenting freely on the colorful paintings and our new reality. We’d give chemo a try next week and hopefully see some benefit. It was out of our hands. The die had been cast and we felt like pawns. Doing our best as we had through past crisis, we geared up for the next ordeal.

How would we tell his sons? He dreaded that task, but there is no way to avoid it. Sharing the news was as bad as hearing it the first time. But talking about it seemed to help. Neither of us feared death, nor did we welcome it. Honest talk was easy between us.

We planned his funeral arrangements, decided on cremation and services. We joked about dying and pondered theme songs for his final days.

Not to be daunted by the grim reality, we plowed forward, cramming as much as we could into each conversation, each moment. Time had been precious to us from hello, so much of our lives were behind us when we met; wasting any of it was never an option.

We planned a summer wedding, July 3, a sunrise ceremony at the beach on the anniversary of our first date, which just happened to be a sunrise walk through the dunes. I worked as a naturalist there years ago and gave him the full tour, birding, deer sighting, and all.

Jerry had his first chemo on April 5 and all was well for the first few days, then the nausea and dehydration kicked in. A trip to the emergency, days at the hospital, and release; rehydrated, and a little stronger, he came home again.

“I want to die at home,” he said. “ I am not going back to the hospital to die, promise me, I want to be here with you, at home, our home.” As if I would let him die alone in the hospital.

His decline accelerated each day, Hospice was called, but we did not even last 24 hours under their guidance.

Jerry passed away on April 23, 2007, just 695 days after we had met. He was and will remain the most treasured six ninety-five of my life.

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