How sad....

On Mon, Mar 13, 2017 at 2:07 PM, Kamakazee <[email protected]> wrote:

> And she died this morning...
>
>
>
>
> You May Want To Marry My Husband
> I have been trying to write this for a while, but the morphine and lack of
> juicy cheeseburgers (what has it been now, five weeks without real food?)
> have drained my energy and interfered with whatever prose prowess remains.
> Additionally, the intermittent micronaps that keep whisking me away
> midsentence are clearly not propelling my work forward as quickly as I
> would like. But they are, admittedly, a bit of trippy fun.
> Still, I have to stick with it, because I’m facing a deadline, in this
> case, a pressing one. I need to say this (and say it right) while I have a)
> your attention, and b) a pulse.
>
> I have been married to the most extraordinary man for 26 years. I was
> planning on at least another 26 together.
>
> Want to hear a sick joke? A husband and wife walk into the emergency room
> in the late evening on Sept. 5, 2015. A few hours and tests later, the
> doctor clarifies that the unusual pain the wife is feeling on her right
> side isn’t the no-biggie appendicitis they suspected but rather ovarian
> cancer.
>
>
>
>
> As the couple head home in the early morning of Sept. 6, somehow through
> the foggy shock of it all, they make the connection that today, the day
> they learned what had been festering, is also the day they would have
> officially kicked off their empty-nestering. The youngest of their three
> children had just left for college.
>
>
>  So many plans instantly went poof.
>
> No trip with my husband and parents to South Africa. No reason, now, to
> apply for the Harvard Loeb Fellowship. No dream tour of Asia with my
> mother. No writers’ residencies at those wonderful schools in India,
> Vancouver, Jakarta.
>
> No wonder the word cancer and cancel look so similar.
>
>
> This is when we entered what I came to think of as Plan “Be,” existing
> only in the present. As for the future, allow me to introduce you to the
> gentleman of this article, Jason Brian Rosenthal.
>
> He is an easy man to fall in love with. I did it in one day.
>
> Let me explain: My father’s best friend since summer camp, “Uncle” John,
> had known Jason and me separately our whole lives, but Jason and I had
> never met. I went to college out east and took my first job in California.
> When I moved back home to Chicago, John — who thought Jason and I were
> perfect for each other — set us up on a blind date.
>
> It was 1989. We were only 24. I had precisely zero expectations about this
> going anywhere. But when he knocked on the door of my little frame house, I
> thought, “Uh-oh, there is something highly likable about this person.”
>
> By the end of dinner, I knew I wanted to marry him.
>
> Jason? He knew a year later.
>
>
> I have never been on Tinder, Bumble or eHarmony, but I’m going to create a
> general profile for Jason right here, based on my experience of coexisting
> in the same house with him for, like, 9,490 days.
> First, the basics: He is 5-foot-10, 160 pounds, with salt-and-pepper hair
> and hazel eyes.
>
> The following list of attributes is in no particular order because
> everything feels important to me in some way.
>
>
> He is a sharp dresser. Our young adult sons, Justin and Miles, often
> borrow his clothes. Those who know him — or just happen to glance down at
> the gap between his dress slacks and dress shoes — know that he has a flair
> for fabulous socks. He is fit and enjoys keeping in shape.
> If our home could speak, it would add that Jason is uncannily handy. On
> the subject of food — man, can he cook. After a long day, there is no
> sweeter joy than seeing him walk in the door, plop a grocery bag down on
> the counter, and woo me with olives and some yummy cheese he has procured
> before he gets to work on the evening’s meal.
> Jason loves listening to live music; it’s our favorite thing to do
> together. I should also add that our 19-year-old daughter, Paris, would
> rather go to a concert with him than anyone else.
>
> When I was working on my first memoir, I kept circling sections my editor
> wanted me to expand upon. She would say, “I’d like to see more of this
> character.”
>
>
> Of course, I would agree — he was indeed a captivating character. But it
> was funny because she could have just said: “Jason. Let’s add more about
> Jason.”
>
>  He is an absolutely wonderful father. Ask anyone. See that guy on the
> corner? Go ahead and ask him; he’ll tell you. Jason is compassionate — and
> he can flip a pancake.
>
>
> Jason paints. I love his artwork. I would call him an artist except for
> the law degree that keeps him at his downtown office most days from 9 to 5.
> Or at least it did before I got sick.
>
>
> If you’re looking for a dreamy, let’s-go-for-it travel companion, Jason is
> your man. He also has an affinity for tiny things: taster spoons, little
> jars, a mini-sculpture of a couple sitting on a bench, which he presented
> to me as a reminder of how our family began.
>
>
> Here is the kind of man Jason is: He showed up at our first pregnancy
> ultrasound with flowers. This is a man who, because he is always up early,
> surprises me every Sunday morning by making some kind of oddball smiley
> face out of items near the coffeepot: a spoon, a mug, a banana.
>
> This is a man who emerges from the minimart or gas station and says, “Give
> me your palm.” And, voilà, a colorful gumball appears. (He knows I love all
> the flavors but white.)
>
>  My guess is you know enough about him now. So let’s swipe right.
>
> Wait. Did I mention that he is incredibly handsome? I’m going to miss
> looking at that face of his.
>
>  If he sounds like a prince and our relationship seems like a fairy tale,
> it’s not too far off, except for all of the regular stuff that comes from
> two and a half decades of playing house together. And the part about me
> getting cancer. Blech.
>
> In my most recent memoir (written entirely before my diagnosis), I invited
> readers to send in suggestions for matching tattoos, the idea being that
> author and
>
> reader would be bonded by ink.
>
> I was totally serious about this and encouraged submitters to be serious
> as well. Hundreds poured in. A few weeks after publication in August, I
> heard from a 62-year-old librarian in Milwaukee named Paulette.
>
>
> She suggested the word “more.” This was based on an essay in the book
> where I mention that “more” was my first spoken word (true). And now it may
> very well be my last (time shall tell).
>
>
> In September, Paulette drove down to meet me at a Chicago tattoo parlor.
> She got hers (her very first) on her left wrist. I got mine on the
> underside of my left forearm, in my daughter’s handwriting. This was my
> second tattoo; the first is a small, lowercase “j” that has been on my
> ankle for 25 years. You can probably guess what it stands for. Jason has
> one too, but with more letters: “AKR.”
>
>
> I want more time with Jason. I want more time with my children. I want
> more time sipping martinis at the Green Mill Jazz Club on Thursday nights.
> But that is not going to happen. I probably have only a few days left being
> a person on this planet. So why I am doing this?
>  I am wrapping this up on Valentine’s Day, and the most genuine,
> non-vase-oriented gift I can hope for is that the right person reads this,
> finds Jason, and another love story begins.
>
>
> I’ll leave this intentional empty space below as a way of giving you two
> the fresh start you deserve.
>
> https://www.nytimes.com/2017/03/03/style/modern-love-you-
> may-want-to-marry-my-husband.html?_r=0
>
>
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