At first sight, some people think I look pregnant until they notice my stylish grey skin, then they look away. I am pregnant with death. The tumours are bloating my stomach but there’s still so much to get done, and only a couple of months left to do it all. Unfinished business. I need to write a list.
MY LIST
• Clean the fridge
• Declutter the playroom
• Fill my script
• Get my tax up to date
• Choose songs for my funeral
• Restore Poppa’s lowboy
• Clean out my wardrobe
• Sand the French doors into the bedroom
• Amend my will
• Write a letter to my son
• Delete my Tinder profile
• Give my husband a list
My husband, Clinton, is used to my lists. I make lists, prioritise lists, redo lists, fish lists out of pant pockets before washing them, follow up on lists and inspect the work once it has been done. But, out of the blue, Clint has not only written a list for himself, but he has also made me a list. What is he thinking? He must be emboldened by the fact I am dying. He thinks I am too weak to kill him. Men do not write lists for their wives. Surely, he knows this. I tell my girlfriends. Their mouths dTop open and, for once, they cannot speak. This is akin to marital suicide. But I guess Clint figures our marriage is dead when I am, so he has nothing to lose.
CLINT‘S LIST
• Have sex — which he has crossed out to read: Make love
• Go for long walks in the countryside
• Lie in each other‘s arms
CLINT’S LIST FOR ME
• Finish your novel
• Play with your son
• Take a hot bath
• Recuperate
Basically all the things I don’t have time for because I am too busy with my everyday list. His utopian version will have to wait…
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