This New Distance (Moulton)

My friend George has a brain tumor that likes to nestle at the base of his skull—it grows and flexes and, sometimes, even disappears for long, breathable periods of time. It has sprinkled his life with chronic illness, doctor’s visits, and surgeries. It has also helped him live a life of joy, pursuing dreams, regardless of his current state or the extenuating circumstances. If not now, then when?

Right before the pandemic hit, he called to tell me the tumor was back. He is in Rhode Island. I am in New Mexico. We text daily but he calls with great news or bad news. I knew he’d had an appointment, so I knew he was calling to share bad news. I tried not to cry or say anything stupid. I tried to just listen and let him check me off the list of people who love him and needed to know. I felt the geographic distance between us then but began looking at the calendar. I picked out dates I would visit if he and his family wanted me to come sooner and be helpful after the surgery. I also picked out dates if they wanted space. I had plans A and B and C.

The pandemic, however, made this surgery different. It moved the surgery up—he needed to get in and out in case the pandemic inundated hospitals. The New York surgeon he’d had previous success with was not an option—NYC was already in trouble. I could not visit before the surgery nor after. The knowledge of this upped the sense of grief and worry the day of the surgery. My panic is not something that I’ve shared with him. I do not want him to think that it reflects my lack of faith in him or his mind or his body. I watched the hours tick by that day. Then the minutes. I tried not to contact his wife who probably knew no more than I did. We waited for George to wake up after brain surgery and somehow text us that he was okay.

The surgery was a success, but the minor stroke he suffered directly afterwards, along with other precautions, meant he spent eight days alone in the hospital. His wife and children were not allowed to visit. The stroke also means he has to relearn to swallow. He doesn’t like to call because his speech is impaired, his reaction time slowed. He is careful not to expose himself to Covid-19. Luckily, he is home now with his wife and kids, and he has friends who sit out front of his house and keep him company from a safe distance. The grief of not being one of these friends is real for me, as is the idea that this way of life will stretch on for a while.

My friend is alive and healing. What more could I ask for? I do find, however, that I resent this new distance. That I grieve my old self’s ability to leap into action. It’s a small window into the loss of others—what it must feel like to labor alone or to not be at your loved one’s bedside when they die. It is not a normal that I hope to get used to.

Rachel Eve Moulton earned her BA from Antioch College and her MFA from Emerson College. Her work has appeared in Beacon Street Review, Bellowing Ark, Chicago Quarterly Review, Cream City Review, Bryant Literary Review, and New Ohio Review. Her debut novel—Tinfoil Butterfly—was long-listed for the Center for Fiction First Novel Prize. She currently lives, teaches, and writes in New Mexico.