Strange Acceptance
Ivana and I would spend the next few days enjoying being together. We both knew her time was coming to an end, although our degrees of acceptance shifted both separately and day to day. Our moods, mine more so, would change on a dime, especially if testing or results were part of the equation.
When we would go for a walk, with me pushing her wheelchair, and get some lunch or dinner, it didn’t seem like the end. Ivana was one hundred percent there. We would discuss things as always, current affairs or sports or cooking shows. She had no issues at all beating me at Scrabble or card games. Her mind stayed strong to her last breath.
Ivana’s physical health was regressing. She noticed it mostly in her lack of strength. It had been difficult for me to watch the physical change in Ivana. She went from 160 healthy pounds to skin and bones and water, very little fat or muscle anywhere on her body. You could press your finger into her thigh and the indent would stay for a long time, several minutes, like memory foam.
Ivana was adamant that people not see her like this. She did not want to be remembered this way. I had to promise many times that she would be cremated, with family and friends remembering her as she had been, before her heart trouble.
The second day after being admitted, Ivana was taken off all the monitors and cords. She was moved from a treatment approach to a comfort approach. I had taken a couple Anthony Bourdain books out of the library, we are both big fans, and she read them when I was not there. Ivana watched a lot of Bourdain’s adventures, and other travel / cooking shows. Mostly, when I arrived, I would find Ivana sleeping, the television on low volume, for background noise only.
We would often reminisce. We relived our favorite stories and adventures, and the antics we would get up to, all planned in our old blue folder.
The old blue folder
One year while we were still dating, the Barrie Colts, our hometown Ontario Hockey League team, went all the way to the league finals. This is a league of seventeen to twenty-year-old guys, some with NHL dreams, some hoping to land a university scholarship, some at the end of their organized hockey career.
The kids played so good, so determined! The crowd was always loud, giving the players that extra drive, that extra step, that extra bit of strength as they battled every shift, every game, every series. We attended every home game during that playoff run, waving our white scarves and cheering with the other 4500 fans crammed into the arena.
Growing up, Ivana spent a lot of time in the Wawa arena, cheering loudly and proudly for the hometown team, so this was not new to her. She loved BEING THERE, feeling the atmosphere and emotion in the building. She didn’t mind voicing her opinion to the referees, either!
I re-purposed a blue folder to organize our playoff tickets. Originally used for insurance documents, the folder had clear, 8.5” x 11” pockets that nicely organized the tickets, and our adventures to follow.
I don’t know when, but at some point we started referring to our vacations as adventures. For us, it was a better description of how we liked to travel. Perhaps not the way we travelled, as much as our mindset when we travelled. It could have been a small adventure, such as tickets to our favorite Toronto sports teams. It could have a fifteen day driving adventure to see a NASCAR race and spring training baseball.
We never liked it when the folder was empty. That meant that we did not have an adventure planned, and that would seriously bother us. We would get cranky, especially if winter was on the horizon and we had no southern plans. To be honest, the folder was very seldom empty, and was far more likely to have more than one adventure at a time in different stages of planning.
I will continue to use the old blue folder to plan adventures, even though my heart feels heavy when I open it. Not many things mean more to me then that folder. It contains the story of us. Not literally, we never kept the paper copies of tickets or planning notes or reservations in the folder after our adventure was complete. Once you start a folder like that, it is impossible to open without remembering some where, some time, some event. We have a long list of stuff we’ve done, and places we’ve been.
It was wonderful to relive so many of those moments in that hospital room, to have the opportunity to remember them together. We often cried and laughed at the same time. I know how fortunate we were to have had that.
Skip-Bo and the Moonwalk
Ivana remained competitive to the end. One afternoon we were playing Skip-Bo. Ivana and I, seated opposite each other across a small table. She was in good spirits, and relatively pain free. Ivana had showered that morning; she could use the walk-in shower with a seat, similar to the one at home. A shower always made her feel good. You don’t realize how important those simple, every day tasks are until you can’t do them as you always could.
So Ivana won the first game, fairly easily. She gloated a bit, and I had to listen to her smack talk. Ivana and I had differing strategies for Skip-Bo. I liked to build up my discard piles. She preferred to keep them low. The next game I had built up my discard piles, and Ivana won again. By a lot. She now led our best-of-five series 2–0.
More strategy-based smack talk. I loved seeing the smile on her face, and hearing her laugh. That was awesome. Even if it was at my expense. A nurse came in to the room for a quick minute, checking Ivana’s IV, and was treated to an impromptu lesson in “Winning Strategy.” I just sat there and shook my head, smiling.
Game 3 started similar to the previous two games. Ivana played a bunch of cards early and her stack was half the height of mine. After each run of cards she would laugh hysterically, or play coy and go silent, looking out the window, before laughing again. I sat there quiet and picked my cards to start my turn. There was nothing I could say. And I said nothing while, with the help of my tall discard piles, I played almost my entire deck. At once. I smiled and said nothing.
Ivana had plenty to say! Almost all of it referring to my incredible luck. I went out on my next turn, and was on the board, trailing 2–1. I won the forth game in identical come-from-behind fashion, making good use of my discard piles for a second time. Again, I said nothing but smiled huge, while Ivana again gave ‘luck’ all the credit. Tied two-two.
Ivana never lost her spirit through Our Journey Together
During the first couple games we had talked while we played. Not game 5. Quiet suspense filled the room. Intently watching each other, we played very deliberately, slowly. Ivana enjoyed a good early start, and slowly increased her lead as I was stuck looking for a 6. Forever! My goodness, I just could not go, partly due to Ivana blocking me. As Ivana built her lead, she allowed herself a smile, but wasn’t saying anything!
Then I finally pulled the 6 I was looking for. And went on a run. With clever use of my discard piles, I played about 20 cards from my deck. An incredible turn of events! Ivana sat and watched in disbelief, her smile replaced with a frown. I allowed myself the occasional comment when I used my discard piles to play a deck card. “Well, look at that, almost like I planned it!”
Ivana stuck her tongue out at me. “Whatever. Lucky dog.” She really loved when I turned over a Skip-Bo (wild) card in my card stack! (Which is complete luck) I should have recorded the witty banter between us.
I went out 2 rounds later, completing the comeback victory in dramatic fashion. Remember all those things we learned about sportsmanship, and being a good winner and good loser? Nope! Cue the moon walk, I went full 1980’s Michael Jackson, and moonwalked around the room. My commentary, done in the voice of an English football announcer: “Oh what a brilliant match! He has done it in spectacular fashion, a comeback for the ages! Oh, what a glorious victory!” Ivana sat and stewed, simultaneously shaking her head and laughing.
Outside of the maternity ward, you don’t often make joyous memories in a hospital. That moment will live on forever. We packed up the cards and went to the food court for dinner. Ivana ordered poutine. I stepped to the counter, and with a big smile said, “I’ll have the Champions Dinner, please.”
“Oh for fuck sakes!” Ivana laughed as she kicked my leg from her wheelchair. Through her entire ordeal, Ivana never lost her spirit. Always seeing the positive, always competitive, always smiling and wanting to make other people smile as well. I miss her so much.
