June 15, 1995

9:37 am

Jess may have died during the night, or he may not have. He called around six after I'd left messages for the past six days to say he'd been in the hospital but was just then home with an IV stuck in his arm and a nurse during the day named Rona. Things don't look good and for some reason this time I believe him. It was if all the life had already been drained from his words. He isn't going to make it past the week and there's nothing he can do. He went home to die.

I didn't have a cent on me last night or I would have gone to him even though he doesn't want anyone to see him the way he is. I finally realized I still had $15 in my checking account and got $10 from the only ATM in the neighborhood that outputs in tens. I should have called him then and said that I'd come spend the night. But I didn't. I thought if I waited until this morning he'd make it through the night. I don't know if that matters -- why make him prolong his suffering for me. I should call the hospital to see if he's checked in but I hesitate and I type this instead.

He's said goodbye so many times and told me how much he's always loved me and that he's sorry for what happened between us all those years ago. But this week he started entertaining the idea that I'd ruined his life on that night I walked out and I suppose I did. He never recovered. I did. I saved my life.

I do wonder, now, if I'd stayed would things have worked out better? Would I have been able to find my way as an artist earlier and would he have found his way as anything. I don't know. I doubt it. We probably would have ended later and worse. We never know these things. We hope that there are better decisions we could have made and knowing that we keep it in mind when we make new choices in our lives.

His voice was clear last night. A weak version of the "normal" Jess. He wasn't plotting how to "beat this thing," or ranting on about his many enemies. He was tired and sad and lost but lost with all his sanity and that's probably unbearable. Lost in the woods with the enemy around you and nowhere to turn and the hope of survival fading with the radio battery and the water pouches. The helicopters might come, they might pick you up. Then, if they do, there will be parades and movies and...

The helicopters aren't going to come Jess and I'm sorry, so sorry. You know my pregnant pauses, that I say what I mean when I can't say anything at all.

He just called. He doesn't want me to come over, he looks so terrible, maybe tomorrow. He says he feels so terribly useless sitting with his IV watching cartoons. Rona hasn't come and he's upset but he says she's good company. He bribes her to buy him cigarettes and vodka and coffee and I know that sometimes those are the only things you want in life.