PLYMALY

So, K’s cancer spread. It crossed an arbitrary border from one organ to the next in a move that is anything but arbitrary. I spent the past two nights staying at his place, helping him recover from surgery.

We agreed that his apartment was more neutral territory than my place- our former home. By “we agreed” I mean we bickered, and settled, and eventually he presented the idea to me as if it was his own,

“It’s easier for you if you control when you leave, rather than when you ask me to leave.”

I gave him the anti-clot injections on the first morning, and sat next to him for twenty minutes on the second day coaching him in every way I could imagine before he gave himself the shot at last. But he asked me to do it again, knowing that it was asking me to stay.

We braved a walk and dinner out, and then he wanted a drink. I know it’s not the right time, but it might be the last time in a while he can manage. So we sunk into barstools at the Irish pub, ordered overpriced G&Ts, and discussed boundaries.

“Yeah it’s weird because I don’t know what I am? “

“You’re my wife.”

“Well for any legal or medical purposes I am. But I’m not your wife. “

“Yeah…”

“I am the person who loves you more than anything and is still legally your wife, but that’s too long of a title.”

So we hashed it out on a napkin, took some license with the line, and settled on a title for me:

Plymaly.

As usual in this relationship, we are making our own rules. It’s enough for now.

We signed it, like a vow.