Chapter Thirty-One: If You're Going To Die Soon
“This is the most surreal experience I have ever had.” Beau La Joie Rodrigue filled my flute with lovely New Zealand ‘Champagne’ from Marlborough and handed me the bottle.
“Yes,” I said. “The most surreal.” I filled his flute and placed the bottle in the Champagne bucket on the floor between La Sophia and Deva. Sir Poggio came over to listen to the bubbles, to sniff them, then sneezed his little cat sneeze. Blind Kanji purred gently on an easy chair.
“Happy birthday, welcome home,” said Beau, clinking his glass to mine.
“The most surreal birthday,” I said.
We sat looking at the sun setting over Doubtless Bay. Exhausted from the move. We drank Champagne as we sat in the Malabar chairs under the cathedral ceiling of Philippine mahogany. So much beauty.
French Beaumanière limestone floors in an eleven-piece Versailles pattern. And all our treasures collected from all around the world. Thai temple doors from Chiang Mai hanging on the far wall. The bronze Quan Yin at one end of the Great Room holding her hands in the mudra of blessing, the gesture of blessing and no fear.
Thousand-year-old wooden Chinese Buddhas at the other end, anciently watching over the whole panoply. A two-thousand-year-old Han horse had accompanied his owner to the next life so long ago and now accompanied us in this one.
And a full-sized standing Ganesha in the courtyard, regarding us through the glass wall, his hands pressed together in Namaste.
Namaste, the Light in me honors the Light in you.
Here we were, at home. Where until two years ago, there had only been a paddock and cattle grazing above the beach. Where Beau and I had sat in the long grass, the pa far back over our left shoulders, far up on the top of the hill, the pa and the spirits looking out and over us at Doubtless Bay, and here, we decided, this was the exact and perfect spot for our house in Paradise.
—The name of this farm is Sacred Gifts—
I sipped some Champagne and leaned my head back against the cane headrest. Looked up at the gleaming reddish wood of the vaulted ceiling.
And then I knew, realized in a palpable way, experienced in the strongest way possible, that it was all a dream.
Everything that had not been there, that had been labored over so physically, so meticulously, right down to each light switch and electric outlet, each door handle and cabinet pull, was now here, physically here, a culmination of two years of intense thought and work. A kind of earthly temple to live in.
And yet.
Dee had come for her grand visit Down Under, Beau and I had recapitulated our earlier exploratory tours of New Zealand in one Grand Final Tour.
However.
We had planted thousands more native trees, Beau and I, by planting every morning for these past two years while keeping a close eye on the construction of the house, involved in every step in the process.
But.
I had completed my novel, In A Desert Or A City, by writing diligently every morning, six and sometimes seven days a week, before planting every afternoon.
Still.
I had discovered clltopics.org and the acor.org website for CLL and had become something of a lay expert on the form of leukemia I had been given and the possible paths it could take me on, could take us on.
Nevertheless.
Our house was nearly complete, complete enough for us to live in. Only a few small details remained to complete.
Complete enough for us to live in. To live in together for five years or one year. Or.
And yet.
I had that feeling you have when you are in one of those strangest of dreams, a dream so realistic you can see all the colors, smell all the scents, feel every surface, experience the deepest emotions, all the while realizing, This is a dream
I am dreaming. A dream just like life itself but with the knowing, the experiencing, I am dreaming.
This is a dream
Dreams are real enough while we are dreaming. And then they are over, gone, nonexistent, like bubbles on a stream, or the bubbles in this very Champagne glass, like those waves on the surface of Doubtless Bay right now, this moment in time, like that dim flicker of summer lightning on the South Pacific horizon just there, the sea spray on the grass this very first night.
Dreams are real enough while we are dreaming. And then they are gone.
Can we say anything different about life itself?
The letter came the next day.
“Dear Mr. Rodrigue, Dear Mr. Allbright:
“Congratulations! The Minister of Internal Affairs has approved your application for New Zealand Citizenship.
“Citizenship will be granted to you at a ceremony in your area. Your certificate of Citizenship will be presented at Kaikohe on Monday, 15 December.
“You are requested to attend before His Worship the Mayor of the Far North to take the Oath of Allegiance and to receive your certificate.
“His Worship the Mayor has asked that I write to tell each of you and advise that following the swearing in of each Citizen, he would like you to say a few words about yourself—your birthplace, how you came to New Zealand, where you live, why you like where you live or anything else you might like to share.”
The swearing-in ceremony was, to us, surprisingly moving. Like our marriage, surprisingly moving to the two of us who had never before put much store in formalized proceedings of any sort.
Surprisingly moving, except when all the sweet new citizens from non-English speaking countries, the Philippines and Tonga and Thailand and Venezuela, followed the lead of the French family and mispronounced “heirs” in their pledge of allegiance.
“I, Nickolas Sarkozy — of course, I am using a pseudonym here for the Frenchman who took the Kiwi plunge that afternoon as it wasn’t really Sarko and his third wife, Carla — I, Nickolas Sarkozy, of Mangonui, swear that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty the Queen of New Zealand.
“I pledge allegiance to Queen Elizabeth the Second and to all her ‘HAIRS’ according to law, and that I will faithfully observe the laws of New Zealand and fulfill my duties as a New Zealand citizen. So help me, God.”
He aspirated the ‘h’ of ‘heirs’ with an extra strong Gallic aspiration.
Pledging allegiance to the queen and all her hairs. Well, that thought, that image, good grief, almost made us both lose it but somehow we managed not to spoil the decorum, the dignity the ceremony required.
Beau felt certain, given the Hundred Years War between England and France, that the new Kiwis from France weren’t really all that serious about their pledged allegiance to QEII, and I felt certain that we weren’t, either.
Our Kiwi friends were astounded. “You had to pledge allegiance?! To the queen?! Bloody hell! We wouldn’t do that!”
“It was a small price to pay. We are sure she won’t demand much of us.”
As though to show that we got the better end of the bargain, we showed them our colorful certificate.
Two days later. We are in Australia. I had been having unexpected symptoms the last few months, so here we are. At the largest and best cancer center in Australasia. It is the hottest day in Melbourne since records have been kept. One hundred and fifteen degrees Fahrenheit.
Over four hundred bush fires are creating firestorms all around the city and throughout the state of Victoria. The sky is dark and orange at midday from the gigantic pyrocumulus clouds. And people and animals are dying. It seems the whole world is dying.
This is hell.
Beau and I are seated before the best leukemia expert in Australasia.
“Our analyses show that, indeed, things have shifted. You are Rai-Stage IV, Aaron. We shall need to start treatment as soon as possible.”
Rai-Stage IV. Beau and I look at each other. From Rai-Stage 0 to Rai-Stage IV just like that? We both know that Rai-Stage V is “dead.”
Back to New Zealand. Back to the Land Near Oz. Now we are seated in front of my New Zealand hematologist. He looks me dead in the eyes.
“If you’re going to die soon, wouldn’t you rather not know?”
He is the only doctor in New Zealand listed on the international Website as an expert in CLL, chronic lymphocytic leukemia. His private practice — or, as we say in New Zealand, his private rooms — is next door to the major hospital, where he has a high administrative position when he works for the government side of the medical system.
The hospital is in one of the richest and most beautiful neighborhoods of Auckland, giant, old, rambling mansions surrounded by massive, old trees, beautiful gardens surrounded by tall, ivy-covered walls. I look out the doctor’s window, over his shoulder, at all this beauty.
I don’t say anything at first.
“If you’re going to die soon, wouldn’t you rather not know?”
Mercy.
That is the name of the hospital that I can see over the main entrance as I gaze out the doctor’s window, across the garden, just a minute’s walk away. Mercy. So close. And yet. So far.
“No,” I say measuredly. “That is not the way I live my life. I would rather know.”
“So,” Beau speaks up. He clears his throat. “We know from clltopics that these newest flow cytometry tests aren’t available in Australia or New Zealand.”
He taps the sheaf of printouts from the Internet that we have come armed with. “We know a couple of them aren’t even available yet at Mayo Clinic in Minnesota. But is it possible to send some of Aaron’s blood off to be tested? So he doesn’t have to go through airports and planes? You said he should avoid flying if possible — the bad air and all the.”
Suddenly he stops talking. I know it is to avoid choking up. But the doctor doesn’t know him. He probably thinks Beau is as calm as he himself is.
I take my eyes off the giant pohutukawa tree outside and look at the doctor again. He is dressed expensively and with great taste and flair. As though he is going to an important dinner party, at an embassy perhaps, or at Government House. Even though it is only ten in the morning.
His suit is tailored and of the finest pin-stripe material, his hair is perfect. Beau and I are amazed how doctors in New Zealand dress in ‘their private rooms.’ Expensive, elegant, very formal attire. An American would never mistake any one of them for a doctor practicing medicine.
He skims his manicured fingernails gently alongside his face, stirring up the scent of his aftershave, then pats his head ever so gently to reassure himself that his subtly colored hair is still perfectly in place.
“Yes, certainly. Blood can be couriered overnight to the States and to England, as you suggest. If you like. There is no reason for Aaron to fly around the world. It would be better if he didn’t. I could arrange for that to be done.
“A lot of blood will need to be drawn. A lot. And packed so it remains at the proper temperature. And customs vouchers must be obtained stating that the blood is free of any dangerous contamination. And attestations from the laboratory. In case there is an accident. Yes, I could arrange for all that to be done.”
“Thank you.”
“Actually, I’ll leave those arrangements up to the two of you. That is probably easiest. Thank you, Aaron. And Beau.”
I hurry to catch up with Beau, who is already out of the doctor’s offices and in the hallway. I close the door softly behind me to keep from slamming it shut. We stare at the small wooden plaque on the door.
That’s how they spell it in Britain and all the queen’s lands. How we spell it, I guess I should now say. I take a last look at the plaque on the door and then we are on our way.
We must arrange to have twelve large vials of blood drawn, packed in Styrofoam-insulated glass tubes, vouched for by the medical establishment and Customs, ready for flight to a major cancer research center in the States, in San Diego, and to the Royal Bournemouth Hospital on the south coast of England.
Enough blood for the FISH test — Fluorescence In-Situ Hybridization test — IgV(H) Gene Mutation Status, CD38 Expression test, ZAP-70 and others too numerous to mention. You get the idea.
Lots of blood drawn, sealed in vials, packed in special insulated boxes, to be carried directly to the worldwide couriers at Auckland International Airport by Beau and me.
From all our readings on the Internet, we know that CLL should really be classified into several different types of leukemia. Some people will never need treatment. Some will have a more aggressive type of CLL and will need treatment very soon.
We were told that the average lifespan for these latter is three to five years or so after diagnosis. Which means that half of them don’t last that long. Among women, two-thirds have the more indolent types. Among men, two-thirds have the more aggressive types.
Still, it was not the death sentence in a few short weeks we both thought it was when we first heard those words Aaron do you know you have leukemia?
We leave the Auckland airport and head north, six hours to the Far North, back to Vara Prasada on Doubtless Bay for a belated housewarming party in our new home, and Champagne on the beach with a few friends that we have invited.
Instead we get a most intense, unrelenting storm for sixteen days. Roaring straight into our house from the South Pacific. The beach completely disappears beneath roiling flood waters, and the horizontal rains attack our new home with a ferociousness that frightens us. The commercial grade windows facing the ocean are bowing with the force of the winds.
Fires in Australia. Typhoon winds and rain and floods back in New Zealand. I wonder if I will get good news from San Diego.
And from the Royal Hospital in England and one of the world’s greatest CLL experts there.
I wonder what it will be. Good news? Or not so good?
One way or the other. We want to know.
END OF CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
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Aaron Allbright’s novel in five parts will be published soon.
IN A DESERT OR A CITY
BOOK I
‘PRINCE CARTIER’ or HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE BEING GAY WITH MY SAUDI PRINCE AND TO START WORRYING
BOOK II
MONSIEUR LE PRINCE, PARIS
BOOK III
THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS
BOOK IV
TYROMANCY AND LUCIFER
BOOK V
WHY WAIT FOR THE LIGHT?