He's Got Terminal Cancer and I Feel Guilty

I got a message today that an ex-boyfriend has cancer again. This is the second time in his life but, this time, it's terminal. I feel oddly guilty about some things that happened between us and, yet, I still wonder why we reconciled and became friends.

1994...

I was barely legal to work in a bar, but I had just moved out of the apartment I shared with my (ex)boyfriend and needed a job. There was a club that hadn't opened yet and they wanted people to help decorate and start training. I was going to turn 18 right before the club opened, so they hired me. It was a very upscale place and I was working with some of the best bartenders in the city.

I can say this now because I don't resemble that girl at all now but, I was smokin' hot back then. 5'4" and 98lbs, skinny but toned, tan, striking red hair, and confidence. You know how it goes...you start meeting people at work and there are always those people who end up getting together with someone. I was one of those.

That girl I used to be was also a slut. I ended up dating one of the valets, the bouncer, and the DJ at the same time; ironically they all the same name. But they never knew because those paths never crossed. While I should have stayed with the valet in hindsight (yeah, I know, but he's a wonderful man now who, frighteningly enough, lives in my neighborhood now with his wife and son.) But I didn't, and I ended up with the older one: the bouncer. For context: 

But let's back up a little bit. For the purposes of this story, the valet and DJ are not included.

Jake was tall, tanned, dark hair, and blue eyes. He worked out a lot and pretty much just looked like a god. He was an artist by trade. He'd done the sculptures in the club and some metal designs. He was good; he did a lot of commission work and was hired by new clubs opening to work on their interior artistic design as well.

We opened pretty early in the day for late lunches (we served food during the day) so half the staff was working. I was kind of bored with no customers, and it happened a lot when we opened early so I would stand at the door with the bouncer quite often, watching all the $100K cars drive by. One day he started looking at me a little differently. I was used to noticing when things like that happened because it did, all the time.

We'd been standing in silence for quite a while and he spoke up. "Do you have any Italian in you?"
What a weird question to just pop off with, I thought. "No."
He grinned and said, "Do you want some?"
"Jesus fucking Christ. Seriously?" I rolled my eyes and went back inside. 
He called after me," Well?" I ignored him.

For the rest of the weekend, he stared any chance he got, since I worked the front bar. All he had to do was turn around and he could see me. Days passed. He kept talking to me and I kept standing at the door as always. Then, like the flip of a switch, I decided Jake wasn't a dick after all. Somehow, he sensed it and asked me out in a proper fashion. The Italian restaurant down the street was one of the best in the city and they were famous for their carbonara and bellinis. All this time has passed and I swear I can still taste them. The upside to being in the bar business is you get to know all the other bartenders and managers nearby and they'd serve underage workers in the industry if they knew you.

We really hit it off. Eventually he got around to asking how old I was. "18."
"I didn't realize you were that young but, hey, you're legal, right? Heh."
"Yeah, I guess so. It's obvious that you're a bit older, so what's the number?"
"34." I was floored. Jake was almost twice my age. Obvious sidenote: I didn't care.

I quit dating the other guys and they were none too happy to find out what had been going on since we didn't try to keep any of it a secret. He was really proud to be with me and vice versa. Jake had been working in the bar scene for quite a while, so he introduced me to "everybody." I was staying at his condo almost every night. I helped him with his art and assisted him in setting all the new decor he'd constructed in the new clubs opening up. He took me to a nearby seaside town that had art festivals three times a year so I could be there for his first 'star of the show,' I guess, showing at an internationally-known gallery, and his subsequent shows. We'd double-date with his roommate and his girl of the week. I mean, we DID stuff as a couple. It wasn't just all physical.

I took him to Thanksgiving dinner that year. My family knew I was bringing someone but they weren't prepared for his age. My parents didn't tell them beforehand, I guess. The looks upon our arrival were, well, mixed. My oldest cousin looked positively mortified. She's 9 years older than me and her opinion mattered a lot to me, so I was a little disheartened.

She intercepted me as I was going to the bathroom. "Do you know how old he is?!"
"Yes. He's 34. And?"
"And?! And he was the bouncer at the Mexico Margarita Bar that I used to go to...WHEN I WAS 21! What the hell are you doing with him?!"
"Um, well, it kinda looks like we're in a relationship, huh?"
"You never bring a guy to family dinners unless you've fucked them. What the hell, Stillie! He's twice your age!"
"Well, yeah but, who cares? I'm not gonna say it's all about 'age is just a number,' but it's just not a factor. Like, why does anybody give a shit?"
She shrugged. "You know they're gonna talk."
I smiled, shrugged, and went to pee.

And yes, there was much talk after we left.

Time went on and he turned out to be a pretty big jerk. Verbally abusing me, but trying to pass it off as a joke. Using me to drive across town to pick up steel for his shop - and I mean, 25 miles each way, 30 minutes with zero traffic, about an hour and a half one way and two hours back if it was rush hour. We often got tips of cocaine or ecstasy along with cash, so we started doing that together. It was a dark time in my life and it only got worse, although I hated the X because it was usually cut with heroin and I wasn't about that. Plus it tasted like shit.

One time, when we were waking up in the morning, he was going off to his studio and I was going into work at the club (now the first of 2 jobs I worked a day on the weekends) at 2. He would arrive there at 8. I was joking around, pretending that I wasn't going to get up and whining about it being so early and pulling the sheets up over my head. It was a little game we played a lot. He'd get back in the bed, we'd have sex, then he'd run off to work. But this one particular morning, he got back in bed and, when he grabbed my jaw, instead of leaning in for a kiss, he forced a pill down my throat and held my mouth shut until I ended up swallowing it. I knew it was X. He'd effectively just ruined my day and freaked me the fuck out with his behavior. It never occurred to me to just get up and puke it up. I called in sick to work and hid under the covers literally all day.

But I stayed with him.

I don't remember a whole lot, except one terrible night where I drank an entire 750ml bottle of Goldschlager (I worked in a bar...hell yeah I had a drinking problem too) and he insisted on taking me out to eat. I don't remember anything except getting back to his place and realizing that the gold comes up too.

There's not just a whole lot else I remember from our relationship besides freaking the fuck out when he told me - like, 5 months in - that he had a daughter who was, by the way, pretty much my same age.

The neighbors three condos down had parties all the time. Big ones, virtually every week. Crazy fucking wild like insane parties. Dude was rich so he went all out, every time. I remember bits and pieces of those parties. 

The end of our relationship was New Year's Eve of who knows what year. 1996? We got off work at the same time but as soon as he secured the building, he got to leave. The rest of us had to stay and tip out and sort it all out. I was at work about 30 minutes longer and then I headed back to his condo, where Dude down the building was having the pinnacle of all parties.

When I walked in the living room (These were apartments created out of an old warehouse. They had one room per floor, like the garage, master bed, guest bed, kitchen, living room, second bed / sitting area and bad-ass balcony overlooking the downtown skyline. Dude had an original warehouse pulley that went from his ceiling all the way down to the 2nd floor, surrounded by Plexiglas and a railing) I found Jake on the top floor. 

With a girl on his lap. Who he was kissing.

I walked over, grabbed her by the hair and her back, and tossed her off to the side. She was too drunk to do a damned thing and I was still sober from work. Also, I grew up in a dangerous ghetto in a large city and survived only by learning how to fight. I leaned over him and put both hands around his neck, fully intending to do something to him - I don't even know what my motivation was. I went into a blind rage as I stormed over to them and the only reason I know what I did is because Dude told me the next day.

The next thing I remember doing was getting back to an apartment I shared with my best friend. I was never there, so I hadn't even moved a mattress into my bedroom. I laid down on the three comforters I had on the floor and tried to go to sleep. I didn't.

Two days later, I went to the condo and his truck wasn't there, so I went in and put all my stuff in a garbage bag and was getting ready to leave when he came up the stairs. Jake was yelling and begging and angry and sad (cocaine'll do that to ya) and didn't want me to go. He grabbed me by the arm and I pushed him on his chest. I really just meant to get him away from me, but he tripped over the corner of the coffee table, fell backward, and hit his head on the arm of the sofa, body fully stretched out and cranking his neck in a really creepy way. He was immediately unresponsive. I didn't know if he was alive, dead, or what, but I was outta there.

I got home and panicked. I actually had a cell phone, way back then (one of those gigantic Nokia phones that are considered 'brick' style. Actually, it was a Nokia model 101!) but most people still had only landlines. I called him, he answered (thank god), asked me to come back, and I told him to fuck off.

That was back when I had confidence and I'd drawn a line. All the other bullshit was kind of like whatever, but the kissing another chick - for some reason was worse than forcing me to take drugs! LOL - oh, hell no. Done. I walked away. I haven't done that sort of thing these days. I just take it. Because I'm beat down. But that's another entry.

I don't remember much about what happened after that. I know I didn't quit my job at the club immediately. I had another job to fall back on but it was only for a few days a week, starting at 3am. But I made it work, started fucking one of the valets and one of the cops that was hired for security on the weekends and we made it pretty well-known (told you i was a slut), and eventually I quit the bar scene

2 years later he paged me. (yes, that was a thing then and google it since you look confused) I called him back. He got right to the point. He said he had cancer. Then I said something I regret: "Good. I hope you die" and hung up.

A few years later, when MySpace became A Thing, he sent me a friend request. He beat the cancer! We called a truce, I apologized profusely, he said he was still mad but would get over it. We followed each other and made the jump to Facebook. He started working for an internationally-known theater company, designing all the sets and props, and promised me he'd call when he got to my city. He never did, though. He always apologized and said it was just the whirlwind and nature of the business, and I believed him.

I knew something was wrong a few months ago. He quit the show and started doing commissioned art pieces in the last place he'd called home. He started posting a lot of pics of him with family and friends, out eating, visiting museums...but I didn't give it a second thought.

Today, I found out why. He was saying goodbye. He told me that he has terminal cancer (although he's not making the 'terminal' part too public; in fact, his sister set up a CaringBridge account to help pay for his ongoing treatment, even though she knows it's in vain) I donated. More than was smart for my financial situation but, damn...I am who I am today partially because of him.

I've been crying. I've been pensive. There are so many things I want to say to him but I don't want to clog up his time with all of the emotional bullshit I want to talk to him about. I don't want to burden him. I don't want him to think this is about alleviating my guilt by trying to "make things right" before he dies.

I just want him to know how much of an integral role he played in my life, and that I still love him in the part of my heart that has remained a 19-year old girl.

I've dealt with swift death a lot. Overdoses and suicides of my friends, a few fatal car crashes, otherworldly amounts of blood, gore, and death from when I drove a tow truck that worked motor vehicle accidents...but this lingering thing. I don't know how to do lingering. I feel a weight in my chest and a lump in my throat and I don't like it.

God have mercy on his poor soul. And throughout this ordeal, I am...
.