Joe, Andrew and Wayne -- Part 14

Joe & Andrew on Mindspring
Wayne on Mindspring

This journal, at least most of it will be Wayne's again. Andrew liked what I did with part 13 and says it's easier for me to do the work. I read every word to him, giving him veto ability on anything he doesn't like. He keeps lying to me and tells me it's good stuff. He wants to see what's in my head. (Leaving all jokes aside thank you very much!!). Okay, I don't mind writing some more.

Note: I have to qualify that last statement now, after sending a very early preview of this to ten friends last night (October 18th). I had been working on this chapter for days and then suddenly lost any confidence that I had that I was writing something that anyone would care about. I got very concerned for content, letting my friends know this was an unfinished piece so I didn't need help with spelling or grammar or formatting, just content. I was reassured by nine of the ten, and the other one yet unheard from (currently on a road trip). I told them that Andrew makes this look a lot easier than it is. My desire is to continue something that Joe started 25 years ago and not, as I told my friend, fuck it up. The one young friend that I was most concerned about told me the words are, like Joe and then Andrew after him, from my heart and that's what makes it special. Thank you friend I really needed to hear that. Having a crisis of confidence mid-stream was kind of numbing. This, then, is for the 10 who inspire me the most, cheer me on, help me love Andrew all the more, and give it to me so that I am not a second banana to love. I would classify this as a 'hard read'. When it's done, before it's sent to Nifty, I have to print it and read it top to bottom to pick out the most glaring of errors. Trust me, I won't catch them all because of how I write (and my unusual ability to see things that are not there -- private joke).

The blindness has left Andrew without much ability to "see" me, not just the physical me. Some say that I write like Joe and Andrew, opening myself up and exposing my soul for the world to see. I do what Andrew says to do -- write from the heart. And those words began with Joe. We've been friends for six years and we are connected, and these journals are going to help me keep a connection into the future, uncertain and scary as it is.

Any one of you who read this could write like we do. All it requires is feeling something. Joe and Andrew and I all feel the same things and none of us are afraid to put the words down so that they can be seen. There are still typos and grammar errors but we're human too, some of us. Ouch (cheap rib shot from the elbow of the young dude in front of me here).

So anyway, the words are mine, as read to Andrew or talked about along the way. We share the words and the feelings, so they are easy to show.

September 24th -- Friday night, into Saturday

"What will you do when I die, bud?"

The question came out of nowhere as Andrew and I lay with each other. I thought he was asleep. I was holding him in his favorite position, from behind, spoons style. He had been still for more than an hour. He knows I won't answer until I have something reasonable to say. I can't answer the question with a question because he truly hates when I start that crap. I didn't want to answer it at all, but he asked for a reason. I think about it, pulling him closer as I do.

"I don't think about you dying, bud. I think about you living. It's hard to think beyond you being with me, of you dying. I need you and Joe needs you more. We'll be alone again. Tell me you won't leave me alone."

"I can't. You know I'm going to. You know what my prognosis is."

"Since when are you going to believe a damned doctor?"

"I don't. I just know what's inside me and it's going to take me from you."

I didn't say anything. I couldn't catch my breath for the lump that stuck in my throat. Andrew's prognosis sucked. If I had to be honest, and say what I knew, then what I knew is that Andrew might have a few weeks, maybe a couple months. He knew too, but differently than I did because he felt it. I wondered how much it frightened him. But I didn't ask, yet. I would though, because I wanted to know what he knew. I didn't want these thoughts in my head. I wanted to feel hope, to feel sure he'd get better but I couldn't get my conscience to fully believe it. I was not the only one who lay with his buddy at night, thinking about things that were too hard to consider. 1000 miles away, we had a young friend who is thinking the same stuff. It's why I feel connected to him. I don't know if he knows why, or cares. His thoughts are my thoughts, nonetheless, because of the boys we love.


"Fuck it Andrew. All I could say doesn't matter. All I can do is hope."

"What are you going to do when I die, Wayne. Tell me."

"No Andrew."

"You have to because you can't lie to me."

"No. It wouldn't be lying, it would just be not telling."

"You can't do that either. We share everything. No secrets, love, you have to talk to me. And don't tell me you don't want to because that's not a good enough answer."

I didn't say anything for a few more minutes. I stroked his face so he knew I heard him.

"Don't ask me to Andrew."

"I'm asking you to, Wayne. You have to."

I thought about it some more and I held him closer instead. Outside was like daylight because the full moon was in the heavens. I turned my head to look out at the night, my hand on Andrew's shoulder. And I thought some more. long minutes more, trying to beat back the Anxiety Monster while watching him creep out of the darkness and feel him sucking on my brain. He took away my common sense and he replaced it with dread. And then I said everything that I had been thinking about for a week or so.

"I'm going to be sad and angry that you're gone, Andrew. I'm going to lay awake for too many nights. I don't sleep much as it is, but without you to hold, it's going to be like going home again like I did after the accident. I'm not going to care about anything, except Joe. I'm going to throw up when I eat, if I eat, because ..."

"Because? Come on, bud. Keep going."

"Because I'm going to hate being alone again. I'm going to walk around in a huge fucking depression and sit in the dark and leave the music off and hold on to Ted E. I'm going to toss and turn for weeks if I go to bed. I'm going to have a huge lump in my throat and feel like crying all the time and I'm going to withdraw from a lot of stuff. I'm not going to let anyone care about me for awhile, Andrew, because they won't know what I need and I won't be able to tell them. I'm going to take time off from work and I'm going to walk until I can't anymore. I'm going to take my sleeping bag outside and walk to the pond and climb inside the sleeping bag and not give a shit about anything or anyone, maybe ever again, because losing you will be like someone ripping out my damned heart. I'm going to ache and I'm going to hate my life for a long time."

Our readers are going to hate everything I just said. I know that but I'm not alone in what I think about Andrew dying. And I won't delete what I just said because I think you'd hate me worse if I fed Andrew a line of bullshit. He listened and he held my hand, touched my chest, and kissed my cheek. He probably knew at least some of what I was saying, but he wanted me to say it so he wouldn't have to guess. He probably hated it too, but he didn't say anything yet.

"I'm going to take care of Joe, Andrew. I have to make that promise to you, so you'll know Joe won't be alone. He might be for awhile, but not all his life. I don't love Joe like I do you, bud, so I'm going to be alone again. You're my life Andrew, you're the only reason I want to care."

"You care about other people, Wayne. You've already done that and you can't walk away, not for long."

"I will, Andrew, for a while."

"Where would you go?"

"Home. To Maine."

"There's no one there for you any more. It's not home."

"No, but it's away from here for awhile. And it's familiar, so maybe it would feel okay anyway. I'd come back, because I have to for Joe. I just don't know how long I'd stay. My life is going to change forever, love."

"Stay with Mom and Pop instead. They love you. You already know that. Mom doesn't give just anyone hugs, and you get a kiss too, so that means you're extra special to her. Dad thinks you're Aces. And take care of my Joe every day instead of leaving him alone for awhile. He needs me, but he loves you too."


"Tell me you'll care for my Joe, Wayne."

"I will, Andrew. He's our Joe. I'm going to take care of you more, though, love. Until you die, I'm going to help you fight so hard that you won't go. I'm going to be so selfish with you and try so hard to make you want to live."

"I do want to live, bud. I just don't know that I will. You can't make me live, not if it's ..."

"Believe it Andrew. Believe in something, love. I'm here for a reason. I don't want to feel any of those things that I've just said."

"I believe. Gotta believe, Wayno. In something, somehow, for however long we can. Make one more promise, my love, for me?"

I knew what he was going to say, because he and I had the same discussion when I was sick in August. Joe had made the same promise to Chris, too. I told him to tell me what he wanted, but that I already knew.

"Take me home, to Mom and Dad, if I'm going to get worse? No hospital for me, bud. Do you understand?"

"Yes, love. I understand. I will take you home. We need to talk to your folks about this though."

"I know. We will."

I knew how to fight cancer. I've done it for seven years, and my odds were no better than Andrew's is when my kidney was dying. I came very close to not getting one, and I would have died. I know what it's like to be near death, because I've been there more than once. It was unacceptable to let Andrew that close to it. I held on to my Andrew. I closed my eyes and put my face into his neck, kissing him softly. I knew a tear fell on to his skin. I wiped it away, and he took my hand. If I could find it inside me, somehow, my buddy wouldn't die, not so soon after his fight began. It wasn't right.

"Wayne? I need you inside me. I need to feel you. Will you take a shower with me?"

"Okay my love."

I took us to the bathroom, helping Andrew to get ready and then to get into the shower. I washed him from head to toe and then I turned him toward me so I could kiss him in the stream of the hot water. He loved the hot water on his back, so I made it as hot as we could both tolerate without being scalded.

He knelt in front of me and took me into his mouth, letting me feel what it was like when I did the same for him. After a few minutes of sucking me to full hardness, he stood, turned around, and bent over. I got behind him and pushed my tongue inside him, more out of extreme curiosity than anything, finding his manliness to be a very appealing thing. I licked his ass, kissed it softly, licked his balls and put his dick in my mouth. I pushed my finger inside him while I ate him. He pushed back on me. He had helped turn me into something sexual, but more than just that. As I entered him finally, I felt him swallow my dick with very little effort. I moved rhythmically inside him, holding on to his chest, holding us both upright as I explored the soft insides of the young man that I loved. He turned to kiss me and I held his head gently, returning his kiss. I licked his ears, one at a time, whispering I love you into his deaf ear as intently as into his hearing ear, telling myself as much as I was telling Andrew. I felt like I was going to come, but I wasn't ready to yet. I withdrew and soaped up my dick again, letting it get a little soft and then working it up to full hardness again. I did that while jacking sometimes too, just to make me come a little harder in the end. It was one of the little things I learned about myself as a teen. After more than 15 minutes of being inside Andrew, I shot my seed into his tight warmth. When I slipped out of his ass, he turned around and held on to me.

I continued to play with him, getting him hard because I wanted him inside me as well. He hadn't been for a week. My ass ached a quiet need to have us connected. I liked to be fucked, because it was Andrew. He was romantic and sexual and he was the buddy I'd hold on to as long as our forever was.

Others have heard me say this -- it's not merely that I love Andrew, but that I am in love with Andrew. I'm fascinated by his love for me and for Joe. I have seen him in recent days with Joe. He loves Joe no less or more than he loves me, and me no less or more than he loves his Joe. Andrew said that he would love two equally. He does love us equally. I see it and I feel it and I am amazed by it. Margie told me that she has never seen someone like Andrew. He can hold my hand and feel me close while at the same time giving to Joe so that he knows, fully, has to know, that he is so loved. I feel for Joe because he is in a coma and I don't know if he will ever emerge from it. I feel for him because Joe is my friend, and has been a good man to me. I love Andrew more only because I have had the chance to. Could I love Joe? Yes. I do. Could I be in love with Joe? I don't know. I've never loved two people at the same time. I can see that Andrew is in love with Joe and in love with me, but Andrew's capacity of love and the human heart is far greater than I have seen in any person, male or female. I don't know anyone who comes close to being what Andrew is.

We lay in bed and Andrew lay facing me, his head on my chest, my chin resting on him, my arm around his shoulder, trying desperately to make sure he was safe and that he would not die before his time. I held Andrew as much from fear lately as I did for love. My Katie died knowing how much I loved her because I told her every day. That's the way it works. If you don't tell someone you love him or her, and they die, you will be left with one more thing that you say "I should have done." I won't do that to anyone. It's not right.

Ted Edward Bear Norton was Andrew's teddy bear, exactly one year younger than Andrew is. He is medium brown, has one eye missing, his nose is ragged, his smile is crooked, and he is well worn, at 33, and about to turn 34 as Andrew turns 35. He sits quietly on my bed, which I try to make up each morning before I go to work. Old habit; my mom made me make my bed every morning before school. I took Ted E. from behind me and put him in front of Andrew. Andrew took him and held him under his neck, probably not unlike he did as a young child.

He raised his head and "looked" at me again. He knew I was looking at his eyes.

"I love you my bud," he said to me.

"I love you more than you do me," I teased.

"Fuck you, Wayne," he said with a smile. "It's not possible and you damn well know it."

"You're such a trash mouth. And you're wrong, asshole. You can't possibly love me more because I'm not as good a man as you are."

"You're twice the man I am."

"I'm half the man you are. But some day I'll be at least as good as you."

"Go to sleep, bud. You already are as good as me."

I did sleep, but not until I had watched Andrew at least another hour. I didn't want to sleep because I was afraid to. He didn't know, right then, that I watched over him each night. I slept, sometimes. But I really did understand what he felt like when he had been with Joe all those long months. Fear kept sleep at bay until exhaustion took over.

And I know the reason why I am alive . . .

In the afternoon, Andrew got a headache -- suddenly, out of nowhere. Headache isn't nearly the right word -- it's a sharp, mind-numbing hot, stabbing pain. He had been sitting on the floor in front of the entertainment center, with headphones on, listening to his favorite music while I sat at the PC, dialed in to the office network. He stood, held his head, and screamed. I went to him right away and he pulled me down to my knees. I had no power to hold him up. I took the headphones off and asked him if it was his head. He nodded. I let him go long enough to go get a painkiller for him. He lay on his back on the floor. I held him up in my arm while he swallowed it and I helped him drink some water. He lay in my arms, shaking, hurting, and waiting. I rubbed his temples and his neck. We tried a cold-pack from the freezer, wrapped in a towel. It didn't help. Nothing helped, but I held on, with him lying against my chest. I held Andrew for four hours until the headache went away.

September 25th - Full moon night (some borrowed from E-mail to a friend)

We were in chat with some friends until after 2:00 a.m.  We decided to go out anyway after and we started by walking around the neighborhood just to get some fresh air to sleep.  We ended up walking the mile to the pond, holding hands the whole way.  As you could imagine, walking in the dark (moonlit only) with your best friend who is blind is a challenge.

We sat down, me behind Andrew like he likes, him sitting tight up against me, my arms and legs both holding him closely. 

"Tell me what it looks like out here, love. Where are we?"

"We're east of the pond. The moon is reflecting in the water, bright and shimmery. No wildlife out here tonight, at least not in the water. The big tree we like is directly behind me. We're sitting right where I've come to sleep sometimes in my sleeping bag. There's a light thin cloud stretching across the moon. The stars to the west are bright but everything else is washed out because the moon is so full and bright."

He told me that he wanted to listen to the crickets in peace for a few minutes.  I held him, my right hand holding my left wrist, up against Andrew's upper chest, my chin on his left shoulder. I nibbled on his ear and kissed his neck lightly. He turned his head and kissed me. His lips were warm and sweet. As is usual, he did not invade my mouth with his tongue. Andrew liked the feeling of our lips. He put my bottom lip between his and nibbled lightly, his left hand behind my head.

And the world is so beautiful tonight . . .

After a little while he turned and faced me, held me so tight and kissed me more, very softly, very warmly.  I ended up on my back and he rubbed the front of my jeans, getting me hard in moments. I unzipped his jeans and took his cock into my hand, stroking it, encouraging it to be hard like mine, strong and erect. He quite amazingly entered me with little effort. I'll say this -- he had no erection problem last night.  I shivered repeatedly as he touched my insides, my legs spread wide to allow him in deeply, probing my secret spots that had not ever been touched until just over two weeks ago. Andrew did not fuck me. Andrew connected me to him and soothed the things that made me hurt, showing me he wanted me to belong to him as much as Joe did. He smiled at me as we kissed. I watched his eyes as they "saw" my face. When he wanted to come, he told me. I grasped his cock with my ass. He moaned and threw his head back as he unloaded inside of me. He lay on top of me, letting me hold him tight, listening to his heart beat fast and steady.

Andrew wanted me to enter him too and make it slow and to last.  He had done over 15 minutes inside me, leaving me full and wanting nothing. I lay Andrew on top of our jeans. I spread his legs and licked him for a few minutes before I entered him. The lube felt slick and I entered him in three thrusts. I imitated what he had done to me, knowing now what he liked and what he wanted from me. My hardness slipped into the warm wetness of his ass. My rhythm became slow and steady. He put his left hand on my chest and tweaked my nipples. He ran his hand over the light fuzz on my chest, up to my shoulder and to my back, drawing me close to him for more kisses. He smiled as we kissed, and then he started to giggle.

"What? You're not supposed to laugh at me, bozo, I didn't laugh at you."

"You feel good inside me. I can't believe you really let me do this to you and that you want to do it to me, too."

"Because I love you and you can have anything from me you want."


"Yeah. Ask."

"A blank check?"

"Sure. It'll bounce to the moon and back, but you can write to your hearts desire. I can give you love, not make you a rich man."

"Fuck money. And fuck me," he said. "All I want is your love and I'll be rich enough, my bud."

I managed about 20 inside him.  That's not easy when you make love only once a week.

It's a place I've never been
And it comes from deep within . . .

An hour later, he lay between my legs and sucked me to full hardness again. I lay on my back, closed my eyes, and let him do anything to me he wanted to. I managed to get him turned around so that I could eat him too. He was like candy. I probed his ass with my fingers and my tongue and he shot into my mouth as I released into his. I didn't know where my 'reserve' came from; it was like tapping a well, just knowing how to find what you wanted. Before dawn, he would find more of mine and give me more of his. I had to look at my drivers license when I got home to make sure I was how old I thought. He made me feel more like a teenager than a guy who was now 43.

October 2nd -- Saturday

And speaking of age, our boy turns 35 on October 3rd. We had planned ahead of time to spend the weekend with his parents, 'out in the country'. Andrew doesn't get home often but he talks to his folks about every other day, very regularly. As for me, I'm son number three, treated very kindly and very much like a part of the family. Son number two, of course, is Joe.

We arrived home about 2:00. Andrew, to his credit, let Mom walk with him arm in arm into the house. He has the type of relationship I had with my mom, and like Joe had with his. Mom was not an authoritative figure in the household. We three were raised by moms were encouraged without nagging or complaining. And Pop? Pop is Andrew's friend more than he's a father. Andrew hugs his dad openly, and is hugged back just as openly. He's a man of good and kind-heartedness. He's not brash, but he speaks his mind. I've known the folks almost as long as I've known Andrew. We boys did a lot of weekends in the country before Joe's accident. I am as home at their house as I was in my own. The rule of the house is you are no longer a guest after the first visit. If you want something, speak up or go get it. If you're too shy to ask, you lose. It was a place to find quiet retreat, out of the noise of the city. The house was large and open, and the sun poured through windows all around the house, which sat on a hill with a view that would astound you. This was the house in which Andrew grew up. Neighbors were not stacked one on top of the other. The homestead comprised of about 20 acres. Home was home, not a showplace. It was tidy and clean but Mom would not put covers on furniture to be protected. Home was a place to live in, not show off to impress people. The family had money but they did not wave it under people's noses. Dad drove a Ford Explorer, a couple years older than Andrew's truck was. Mom drove a Honda.

I knew there was fresh brewed iced tea in the fridge so I took glasses down from the cabinet and poured four. We talked in the kitchen for awhile. Kitchens of large size like this seemed to be a favorite hangout for discussion for Andrew. His apartment also had a substantial sized kitchen. A breeze floated through and we decided to go on outside to the back yard where Pop showed off his latest success with his rose bushes. The man's thumb was greener than grass at a golf course. We talked about everything that we hadn't caught up on in recent days.

Pop watched Andrew's eyes, not with pity, but with some curiosity. Andrew did not like the sunglasses that he carried in his pocket, but wore then when the light tended to make his eyes burn. Pop saw me watching him watch Andrew and gave me a smile and a nod, telling me he was okay about Andrew's newest hurdle. He had asked Andrew questions when he first lost his sight, not unlike what I asked too. Andrew answered them honestly. Pop shared the answers with Mom and Mom asked her own. There was empathy and encouragement. Mom's attitude was that the only thing Andrew should ever hear is cheering.

At dinner time, the kitchen smelled of a roast chicken, which turned out to be two roast chickens because mom will make other stuff from the second one. There were potatoes on the grill outside and three kinds of veggies -- peas, broccoli and glazed carrots, all from the garden that took up a half acre on Pop's land.

After dinner, we had been at Pop's desktop PC when I started teasing Andrew. He had gotten a few dozen E-greeting cards, which we opened and listened to, and sometimes even replied to. I told him there was more. Unknown to Andrew, I had taken two boxes of presents to his folks house. These were gifts that had arrived throughout the past week from friends all over the country, and one from the UK, Andrew's first international gift ever. I finally brought him out to the dining room and put his left hand on the multiple packages. On top of all that, mom had made (this will be a teaser again to a few friends who already know about this) a German Chocolate cake, raspberry jam between the layers, with real pecan and coconut frosting, from scratch. Sorry friends, we did not save you any. Half the cake is in my freezer at home and I ain't sharing, maybe not even with Andrew. I know I know, I'm so damned greedy and selfish.

This short piece is from E-mail that I sent after 3:00 a.m. that night: To the gal who packed Andrew's gift in foam peanuts ... you got his mom all ticked off because he threw them everywhere.  Same for you folks with the bubble wrap in the gifts.  Glitter *everywhere* (uh hum .. you know who you are).  Wrapping paper torn up like a little kid at Christmas.  We would not let Mom pick up after us either so I handled clean-up duty.  You owe me ... and I won't forget  :-O  Ha ha, what fun it was.

Cards, E-cards, home-made cards, a huge bouquet of fresh flowers (which I described in detail while he touched each flower or greenery), music CDs (eight by count), an audio book on CD, books, and cassette tapes -- and a check from his folks that was, apparently, their usual gift. He's spoiled rotten. I joke about it, but Andrew, as you would suspect, does not act spoiled or demand anything. He is very appreciative of what comes his way. His $1000 gift from his folks goes into his money market account, with ¼ of it earmarked for his favorite charity, Special Olympics. The collection of gifts now sits on my dining room table, awaiting for some time for Andrew and me to sit down and read or listen to. I have to say, without hurting anyone's feelings I hope, that I liked the books that Andrew got the best. The music and the tapes and cards are for Andrew to enjoy by himself, for the most part, or to share with Joe when he's at the hospital. I have not done so yet, but I am going to get Andrew a portable CD player for Christmas (and I have to remember not to read this part to Andrew later). The books are a way for me to share with him, just the way I like. Two people wanted to send him a book, then realized that he couldn't read. They sent me E-mail asking if it was still okay to send them and if I would read to Andrew. I love to read to Andrew.

A little side trip here: when I read to Andrew, it is generally on a quiet weekend afternoon. It's better if it's a rainy day because it adds to a mood that encourages us to sit still, rather than run around outside. I take my place on the sofa, pillows behind my back. Andrew sits between my legs and lies back against my chest. I hold him close with one arm across his upper chest, pausing only long enough to turn pages. We'll sit for hours, no music, only the sound of me reading to him. When he wants to sleep, he will turn his head, kiss me softly, and then nuzzle into my neck. The book then goes to the coffee table and both arms magically wrap around my friend. I hope he feels me holding him when he sleeps.

This too is from the same E-mail as above: The only damper on the day was a terror headache around 11:30 p.m.  Scared the crap out of his mom and he almost took her down but she held him tight and didn't let him fall.  Amazing woman.  Not big either, by any stretch of the imagination.  Mom and son are about the same size -- Andrew is 5'7" tall.  I'm surprised he didn't take her down because he has done it to me and I'm nearly 6' tall.  God love mothers, especially Andrew's.  His folks had not experienced one of his headaches yet.  I taught his mom how to massage his temples and neck and she did well.  Doing *something*, even if it's only minor relief, cuts the frustration back a lot.  Pop, as usual, is a rock and a strong man.  No pity, no worry -- just love and strength from the heart.  As Andrew would say, "they are Aces!".  We're okay.  He's almost 4 hours into this one but says he feels good enough that he can probably sleep.  I hope so.

October 3rd -- Sunday

The morning brought only tiredness. His headache lasted until past 6:00 a.m. We didn't go to bed until past 3:00 a.m. and did not sleep until the headache left.

Andrew's bedroom had been redone after he had moved away from home. Last year the folks spruced it up again, with fresh paint and wallpaper. At some point Andrew's twin bed had been replaced with a double bed. We lay together, not sleeping, but resting. He finally spoke.


"Yes love."

"I want to stay here, for a few days, or for awhile."

"You don't want to go home with me today?"

"No, not yet. I ... don't know if I want to continue with my treatments."

I didn't say anything. I didn't want to say anything wrong. He went on.

"I can't work, except for the days I'm teaching my class. I should spend my time with Joe but I ... I don't know how to finish that thought."

"But you need to think about yourself for a few days?"

"Yeah. I guess I hate to say that out loud. What would Joe say?"

"Joe would say to think about yourself for a few days. You're not superman, love."

"I guess."

"Is this because of some E-mail we've gotten this weekend?"

"Yeah, partly. Partly because of what Doc said yesterday about my progress, or my lack of progress. I'm fighting my Anxiety Monster again. It sucks to be so sick when my counts only increase. No sight, no hearing in my right ear, no feeling on my right side -- it's too much. I could do it if Doc told me my counts were dropping, or if the tumors were shrinking, or even if the cancer was holding steady. But not when it continues to eat me."

I could see some of this coming. Andrew had been terribly restless all week. If he slept two hours at a time, I thought he was doing good. He didn't sleep, so I didn't. My Anxiety Monster and Andrew's are tag-teaming us. They are bigger than us. A week off from treatments might help clear his head. To not continue them at all would, I thought, be the wrong choice, for Andrew. He had been in this only since June. But the choice wasn't mine either and I didn't feel I had much voice in his decisions, not these anyway.

"I don't want you giving in, love. Don't. Take a break if you have to, but don't think about quitting."

"Would you really think of me as a quitter?"

"Yeah, love. It's too soon. I know it's wearing on you. I've been there, in my own way with my cancer. It's not the same as yours, but something in me says that you need to believe."

"Gotta believe."

"Andrew it's not just words. Do you know that?"

"Yup. I've seen our E-mail, bud. You've had a few people tell you "gotta believe" right back. But ..."

"No Andrew, don't. I don't want 'but'".

"But I'm afraid, bud. I'm not like you."

I didn't say anything for a few minutes. I touched his chest, put my hand on his heart, and wanted to give him something that he didn't have right now. The magic energy transfer wasn't in me. I watched his eyes.

"Don't let me lose you, love. Joe needs you. Me too, but Joe needs you more. Keep going so you can help him."

"Not now. Maybe next week, but I need time this week to hear what's in my head. If I stop treatments for the week, my headaches will probably stop because I think they are chemo-induced. I'll stop puking long enough to feel something. Maybe the pain will back off too."

"I wish I could help you, Andrew. I wish I could do more."

"I know."

I wished he'd said "I know, but you help me a lot," or something like that. I heard "but you can't help me right now" instead.

We slept for awhile.

We were in the kitchen at 8:00, making breakfast for us while Mom and Pop took their morning walk. The folks had been up by 6:30 as usual and had finished up breakfast as we came down stairs. Andrew told Mom that we'd make our own since she cooked up a storm last night. He was amazing to watch in the kitchen. He knew his way around, naturally, and did most of the preparation on his own. I did the stuff that involved the stove because I was afraid of him getting burned. That was the only thing he relented on.

By noon, he got hit with another headache, no less intense than last nights and no less worrying. It only added to his argument. By 6:00 I'd sent mail to our friends to let them know what was on Andrew's mind. At 8:30, I drove home to get some more clothes for Andrew for the week and to get a change of clothes for work tomorrow for me. It was a 45 minute trip each way, and I spent about a half hour at home. Andrew had told me to use my judgment in what to bring him for the week. I packed two pairs of jeans and a pair of Dockers, two sweatshirts, five polo shirts, and boxers and socks. I also packed a dozen CDs. I was at his folks again by 10:30.

Andrew let me hold him all night as he held me. The only difference was that he had more on his mind than just me this time. I could handle that, for awhile. Andrew was a big boy and had to make his own way, even if it was on his own for the week.

"Can I come back on Tuesday and Thursday?"

"You better. Friday too, and stay for the weekend again."

I had chemo Monday night so I would not be able to drive back to be with him. It was a 45 minute drive and I could barely handle the 15 that it took me to get back to my apartment after chemo. I puked all night, and not always just from chemo. I held Ted E. Tuesday I arrived after work, just about 6:00. Mom had held dinner for me. We helped with the dishes and then went for a long walk. Andrew took me into the woods and asked me to make love to him and to let him make love back to me.

October 7th -- Thursday

The day found me working from home in the morning. Chemo seemed to bug me more this week, or at least I gave in to it a little easier. I had the kind of job where I could work from home as easily as in the office. I didn't take advantage of it too often. My mood today allowed me to.

Andrew had gone through the week, so far, without any signs of headache. The longer Andrew went without one, the more we believed that it was chemo-induced. A friend noted that the headaches were then just a horrendous side-effect to be endured while cure happened. My thought was that they may be a reason, instead, for Andrew to decide against going back to treatments at all. This, from E-mail to friends, is what was on my mind today:

To endure treatment and to be well, eventually, is one thing.  It's quite another to endure treatment, make no progress against it, and to keep a stiff upper lip.  If the headaches are treatment-induced, Andrew told me he won't likely start them again next week.  Not my choice and I only have little voice in it.  It's for Andrew to make up his own mind on.  He knows as well as I do that his prognosis, from the onset of the cancer and subsequent assault upon his brain, stinks.  If Doc were to give him a time estimate (which Andrew will not allow him to do, but he's no fool either), it would be weeks.  It's quite likely Andrew will not make it until year's end.  If that was hard to hear, think how hard it was to type, and to know.  No, I don't wish to think about it, at all.  But I'm kidding no one if I don't.  Andrew is blind, has no hearing in his right ear, is still paralyzed on his right, has had extremely debilitating headaches -- but he has also held my hand through my treatments, talked for hours upon hours with me, taught a three day class that *NO ONE* at work expected he would ... and now tries to make up his mind between the good and the bad.  Maybe he'll keep fighting it -- our other young friend who is ill wants Andrew to keep going; and that may be reason enough for Andrew to do so. 

I played hooky from work that afternoon and went to my buddy. I wanted to be with him far more than I wanted to be part of my life in Corporate America today. The same was very likely for Friday. I had walked, holding Andrew's hand, slowly and carefully along the back country roads and acres where Andrew had grown up.

And this to, from outgoing E-mail, later in the evening:

Hi honey, I'm home ... what's for dinner??  Well, Andrew's mom is making up a roast chicken with all the fixings.

I want to say one thing, for you folks to think about.  E-mail is hard because you don't see the me that is sitting here writing it, nor do you see Andrew.  I haven't sent anything to date that Andrew hasn't seen yet. Here's the one thing:

1000 people cheering and one person crying—Andrew is going to hear that one person.

All I want is you to think about possibilities.  Nothing more.  Andrew is fighting VERY hard and will keep doing so.  Please, no tears ... I told this to a young friend a couple of times—think about living, not dying. Andrew isn't dying—he's living HIS life, earnestly and sincerely and for all he can get out of it.  I'm here to help and I won't cry.  He doesn't need that.  He needs encouragement and that's all I know how to offer. Please do that too, for your own sake as well as Andrew's.

My boy says "I'm living, dammit.  I know how to do that.  I have Wayne and Joe to live for.  Every hour every day, like our young buddy says when he says he loves us.  EVERY HOUR ... EVERY DAY, one (long) day at a time.  I'm going home Sunday with Wayne and continuing to do what I want to and should. Yes I'm going back to chemo and one more week of radiation.  I'm not scared. I'm ready to fight the fucking enemy ... put on your battle armor and come with me, okay??"

So the battle armor came out and friends helped us dig in. It had to be a hard choice for Andrew to make. Somewhere along the way I sent more mail and told our friends one more thing:

Battle armor at the ready . . . we're in for ONE HELL of a hard fight.  It's gonna suck, real bad it's gonna suck.  It's gonna mean headaches that beat Andrew into submission.  It's gonna mean puking like there's no tomorrow, and pain and some serious goddamn tears.  Fuck it; we ain't losing this one.

And I told myself the words a couple more times as I put on my own battle armor and went to kill the Anxiety Monster. If I couldn't kill it, then I would leave it in a bloody heap, feeling that if it's going to screw with me, it's going to get as battle weary as me.

We've been without power since about 11:00 our time.  Andrew and I have been on the sofa (no you may NOT ask doing what!  Harumpf!!) waiting for it to come back on.  We were in a chat with friends who probably think we died (and judging from mail on my account, everyone is panicked.  Oy).

I ended up at the emergency room at the hospital, which by the way is 35 frickin' long minutes away from Andrew's folks -- gonna see what they'll do about relocating the house because that's very inconvenient, especially when you are bleeding and depending on your blind buddy to shift the damn gears.  Start at the beginning:

I don't know my way around folk's house very well, at least not some of the important things.  We were in the den on Pop's desktop when the power went out.  Looks like the local substation took a hit or someone took out a utility pole/line.  Some of the neighbors on a different line than us had power, those beside us (beside being relative; Andrew's folks have about 20 acres of land) and behind us had none.

Mom and Pop had gone out after dinner.  I tried to find a flashlight in the kitchen so I could at least light candles.  What I found was a sharp metal cheese-slicer type thingy that slit about 2" into my right hand, between "The Finger" and my ring finger.  I stopped counting stitches at a dozen, and there were more.  I can't take the painkiller I was able to get because I had chemo on Wednesday and I'm not allowed drugs until after noon on Friday.  So here I sit, finally in the light, my buddy in front of me listening to me type, and me read with my right hand throbbing like hell!  It's 4:10 a.m. by the way, in case you're wondering and watch the time on incoming messages from us.  Five hours without power sucked, though I got to hold Andrew, so how bad can that be?  It took 90 minutes to get to and from the hospital and to get stitched, so I got 3 hours of holding time in.  Okay I can live with that.

Mom and Pop went to bed as usual, by midnight, selectively turning light switches on and off so we would not all fry in one surge of power whenever it decided to come on again. I told her it be enough to leave the kitchen light on over the sink and the lamp here in the livingroom. And I think I'm playing hooky again from work on Friday, just because. 

Now we're tired, since we are able to communicate with the outside world again.  Hate power outages!  Five hours is WAY too damn long in 1999.  Okay, going to copy/paste this into other mail and go to bed before the sun decides to come up.

Sometimes we seemed to live for crisis. A friend asked us, after this message went out, if we could possibly get through 24 hours without something happening. I dunno; we haven't managed to yet:

October 12th -- Tuesday

The following was going to go into an E-mail message to a friend. I cut it out of there and decided to put it here instead. Somehow, it didn't feel right to put it in mail tonight.

Andrew wanted to curl up on the sofa the moment we came through the door and it looks as if he's about to doze off for awhile.  I just asked if he wanted to say anything while I was composing.  I'm getting a blank expression from him, one that I hate because it means his brain signals are misfiring.  I hate that look. The only thing worse to me is his headaches. I'm going to go and sit with him for a moment.   

A half hour has passed. He has no clue; he doesn't know me.  He curled up on his side and tried to push me away.  I didn't let him.  He pushed anyway and I held on. He slapped my face and tried to pry my fingers from his waist.

"Leave me alone! Who are you? I don't know who you are!"

"I'm someone who loves you, Andrew. You can't push me away, love, I won't let you."

"Go away! I don't want you here. Stop it! Let me go, dammit."

He continued to struggle against me. The words 'who are you" were like the cold steel of a knife, penetrating my heart. 'I don't want you here' was like a hand reaching into the gash in my chest, ripping my heart out, taking my soul with it. He fought me and I fought him. I won out.  There is no way I'm letting him go when he's pushing away.  It'll make me hold him all the more and I can show some extreme stubbornness if I'm pushed.  Someone told me recently, as a compliment, that I do not make a good enemy.  I don't suspect I am. All I want is for Andrew not to ever forget who I am.

I got off the sofa long enough to lay in front of him, instead of behind. I took his two arms and put them to his chest, stroked his cheek, and kissed him on his forehead.

"Who are you? Why do you care for me?"

How do I explain, when he'll forget? The misfires to his brain will stop and then I'll be his Wayne again.

"All you have to know is one thing. I love you, very much."


"Don't ask, Andrew. Just hear what I said. Did you hear me?"


"That's all you got to know, for now."

"Do I love you, too?"

"Let's hope so. Sleep love, close your eyes and just let me hold on."

Two hours passed as I held my Andrew close. I lightly kissed his lips, not enough to wake him, but enough to taste him and know that he was mine. I watched his sweet face. My Andrew was in there, fighting the demons that took him away from me for awhile. I was afraid of who he would be, or not be, when he woke again. I waited. I wished to have him back, but wishing didn't always make it so.

He shifted his position a bit and opened his eyes. It was about 10:00 p.m. I touched his cheek with my left hand as I held his hands in my right. I didn't know who was there, but I hoped that he remembered what I told him two hours ago. I spoke, because I couldn't wait any longer.


"I love you Wayne. You care for me and you love me, even when I fight you. I'm sorry ..."

"Don't say it, love. Do you remember what I told you awhile ago?"


"Then that's all we have to know. Sleep my bud. It has to be so hard on you, so sleep and let it pass. I'll be right here, even when you fight me."

He kissed me and touched my face. He left his hand there as he went back to sleep. It was after 5:30 a.m. by the time I fell asleep and it only seemed like minutes before the alarm went off. It was 8:00 a.m. and he had to be at the hospital by 9:00 for the first of three epidural steroid injections for his back. Amongst the roar of the cancer was another half roar for a wretched back that did not seem to want to heal. Mine had, in a few months, with only short lapses of pain now and then. But Andrew's was a nagging pain added to the chorus of headache from hell pain.

October 14th and 15th -- Thursday/Friday

Andrew began to stir. I looked at the clock. It was just after 4:00 a.m. I had dozed about an hour. Except for about six hours worth of naps, I had been awake since Monday morning at 7:00. Chemo should have laid waste to me on Wednesday night but I resisted. If I slept, something would happen to Andrew. It was a thought etched into my brain. I held my friend, facing me, his head on my chest. He started to cry and he started to rub at his head. My God, the thing that I had been dreading and hoping against all week had happened.


"My head. Bathroom."

We made it just in time, as he puked mightily. I held his head and waited for almost 20 minutes before he stopped. The attack on him struck more quickly than ever, leaving him dazed. I could almost write a book on puking, but this was out of the norm for Andrew. When he finished, I washed his face with a cold washcloth and carried him back to my bed. I lay on top of him to protect him from being hit by anything again, shielding him almost completely. I put my cheek to his cheek and I wrapped both my arms tightly around him, smelling his scent, pushing his hair back, stroking his right cheek softly, kissing his eyelids gently, kissing his lips softly and slowly. I couldn't do any more. I just held him and kissed him, wishing him to be safe and comfortable soon. My alarm went off at 7:00.

"I wanna go to Joe today, bud."

"But your headache, love. How can you possibly."

"I can't stay here. I'm too restless. You have to go to work because it's your last day at your old position. You got too much to do and I want to be with our Joe."

"Okay. Can you handle taking a shower?"


I washed his face as we stood under the hot water. I turned him around and held him against me. I soaped up my hands and washed his neck and shoulders. I washed his right arm, down to his fingers. He couldn't feel it but that didn't matter. I washed underneath his arm and across his chest. I kissed his left shoulder as I held him for a moment. I washed his left arm as he moved it around to help me reach down to his fingers and his underarm. He took the soap from me and lathered up as I rubbed my hands into his skin. He was still quite independent, so the shower ritual was us two working to get him clean. We washed his chest more thoroughly, down to his stomach, down to his groin. He was not erect as I washed his privates thoroughly. I washed his back from top to bottom, both his sides, his butt, his legs and his feet. I kissed his hip lightly while I knelt there. We changed positions and I washed myself top to bottom, as thoroughly, while holding on to Andrew as best I could. He stood with his back to the water, making it feel a bit better.

His stomach was totally empty so I made him sit and eat some oatmeal with me at the dining room table. The sun was out and it was a beautiful day, outside. Inside I felt like it was raining. I watched Andrew as he cleaned the oatmeal from his bowl. I pushed my luck and toasted an English muffin. I ate half while I set the plate in front of him. He took two bites and pushed the plate back to me.

"No Andrew. I got half. That's yours."

"I don't want it."

"Andrew, eat it. Or I'll report to Margie what you did about breakfast."

"Damn you."

"Yeah I know. Eat it anyway."

He did. I poured OJ for us and he drank it. I poured us each a small glass of milk. He drank it. By 8:00 we were in the bathroom again. By 8:15 he was eating another half English muffin. I made him a ham & Swiss sandwich, peeled and sectioned up two oranges, and put Reese's peanut butter cups into his lunch bag.

He wanted to write an E-mail to our young friends, so we sat at my PC and played "Lefty/Righty" on the keyboard until he got his message done. We laughed at ourselves. It took about five minutes to do a one minute mail, but I didn't care that I was going to be a little late for work. I would work through lunch today anyway. My boss is not one to watch my clock to make sure I'm putting in my time. I had only one task left to do at work today anyway.

I took Andrew to his Joe and watched as he took Joe's hand in his, kissing it gently, settling in for the morning beside his buddy to hold on and to talk to him.

"You and I are going to have one serious discussion, Wayne. You look like you haven't been to bed in days."

"I have Margie, I just haven't slept. Today's Friday. I can sleep in tomorrow."

"Liar. You won't, you'll have Andrew back here again, early, like you always do."

"Then I'll take a nap in the afternoon."

"Who are you trying to fool?"

"Only me, Margie, only me. Take care of him okay? He's got the headache from hell."


"About 4:00 a.m. I thought he was safe Margie. He's gone through the whole week almost without it and I was feeling better that he wouldn't get one. My guard went down a bit and it munched his head in one big bite."

I left for work, knowing Andrew was safe here, knowing he was thinking of only one thing today -- his Joe. Admittedly, I did not get to think much about Andrew until I ate a late lunch at my desk. I spent about 20 minutes sitting back with my feet up, arms folded across my chest, not working. His face -- that's all I could see in my mind, his sweet face. It made me smile.

Today is day three of chemo for Andrew, with day five of radiation. He has one more week, finishing up on the 22nd, and then gets a six week break. I looked on my calendar just now and see that six weeks ahead is Thanksgiving week. I don't normally think ahead to that many weeks but now I find myself hoping that six weeks brings great improvement in Andrew's condition and radiation will be the last thing that he will have to think about. Doc says he's thinking of putting me back on the cycle to see if we can do clean-up duty and get my counts lower. My counts, which he wants to see below 5,000 times the norm, is floating between 9,000 and 10,000 above the norm. Steady is okay but it's not getting me well and into remission. I want to be down to one chemo a week because I know I can give Andrew my attention better when I'm not spending Wednesday and most of Thursday puking up and trying to feel better. Actually, I want to be done with chemo, but that's stupid dreaming. I'd rather think I'm more into reality than that, knowing what the cancer is like in my body at this moment. I have two other friends on my mind instead.

I got asked this in E-mail a few times and only now decided to remember it long enough to write an answer here. The question related to how dependent, and how independent, Andrew really is. Andrew, for one thing, is a stubborn man, in case haven't seen it. He lets me help him, but he also likes conducting his life without asking much of me. He can shower by himself. The only thing he asked me to do was wash his left upper body and arm, since he can't hold the soap in his right hand. He can brush his teeth without my help, as long as I stop hiding the toothpaste. Well, I don't hide it really. I just move it elsewhere on the sink/countertop. And maybe I put it in the medicine cabinet once in a while. "Wayne damn you" is a common expression in the morning and evening.

Dressing - He can put on his own boxers, socks (with a bit of a struggle), pull-over shirts, jeans, dress slacks, and all his shoes. I tie them. Once in a while I mismatch his shoes, just to keep him from taking me for granted. He knows what each pair should feel like and I don't really let him out of the house with mismatched shoes. I'm cruel, but then again I do have my limits. And I'd be a virgin the rest of my life if I messed with him like that. As for his dress shirts, I do the buttoning. I also put his right arm in the sleeve and put his sling back on him. I put his belt through the loops when he wears dress slacks but he finishes it off. He brushes his own hair. I tie his ties.

Eating - He makes his own breakfast when he's at the hospital early with Joe. Margie insists he eat there if he has not eaten at home yet. He prefers to eat there, with the 7:00 a.m. crew. Margie says she wanted to help him one morning. He told her to let him, so she stepped back and watched. He got a bowl out of the cabinet, poured cereal (settling for whatever box he grabbed), peeled a banana after Margie got it started, sliced it up, got milk and found his spot at the table. If Margie or any of the nurses bring strawberries for him, they cut off the top but leave them whole so he can cut up his own. He'll let someone split his English muffin or his bagel, but he toasts and butters them. He pours his own OJ (I'm laughing because that took a lot of practice to not under-pour or over-pour). He lets someone pour the coffee or make tea since he won't mess with anything hot. I pack his lunch, which is usually a sandwich and a couple pieces of fruit, and usually chocolate something for a snack. He helps me with dinner, but nothing involving the stove, unless it's just stirring stuff while I'm there. I have gas (Stop that! Not *that* gas) to cook with and I'm really nervous about open flame and Andrew. If we eat out, he orders something that is already sliced and diced or lets me cut it up for him.

Friday night brings Andrew and me to hold each other and to find our own brand of rest. We kiss as if we have been in love forever. My "forever" is forward, not backward. I live in hope because I have our friends saying "gotta believe" back to me.

A friend sent me mail a day or two ago and asked the following question:

how did you know that your feelings for Andrew had changed from that of *love with friendship* to that of *in love with friendship*?  Was that a hard transition for you to make?

She had said she knew it was a personal question and that I didn't have to answer it if I didn't want to. I yanked her chain a bit in my reply to her, and then gave a relatively short answer. Other people have asked me, so I decided this one was one for the readers too (I asked permission if I could put it here). My short answer reply was:

Easy question, from a woman no less.  Usually you women friends and readers ask me all the hard stuff that I have to think about for days.

Two words will answer the question -- "home alone".  It goes back to before Andrew became paralyzed and lost his sight.  Evenings or weekends that he decided to be with Joe would leave me on my own. When Andrew and I would part company back then, I felt my heart ache.  It was very easy for me to go from loving Andrew to being in love with Andrew and I knew it the first time I felt the ache of him not being with me.  I haven't ever felt that with anyone else, except Katie when we went off to college.

And now the longer answer:

Joe and Andrew and I hung out a lot together, fairly inseparable as buddies go. We did day trips all over the state, spent a large amount of time playing basketball, worked together 8 to 12 hours a day sometimes, went to movies as a part of a crowd of six or eight people, went out to eat on weekends (typically breakfast), and spent time making a close friendship. Over the course of 4 ½ years, we got to know almost all there was about each other. And for 18 months more, Andrew and I have continued and bettered the friendship. Andrew had been with me and another friend the night that Joe was struck. We had been playing basketball that night while Joe had gone to dinner with another set of friends. Other than family, I was the first to know of Joe's accident from Andrew. He didn't call me until after 6:00 a.m. I wished he'd called me right away. I couldn't have done anything for Joe, but I could have at least helped Andrew tolerate the worst night that he'd ever had. When I think back now, that was the beginning a very long series of restless days and nights, in support of a friend who wouldn't ask me for much.

"Love, with friendship" came about two years into the friendship. It's a little hard to explain about love being part of the friendship mix. But it came about with Joe as well as with Andrew. Love isn't the "kiss kiss hug hug" stuff. It is something that you find you have one day, without words really being said. The love is something very brotherly. Joe seemed to hate that Andrew and I both were only children, so he made sure both of us would talk to him when we needed anything. I knew what Joe and Andrew were to each other and felt blessed that they would let me in. We had long nights together sometimes, with them helping me through nightmares and Anxiety monsters (which Andrew put a name on, finally).

"In love, with friendship" -- well, you know already about that. The word "in" adds about ten-fold to the feeling. "I love you" is one thing, and very nice indeed. "I am in love with you" is quite another. It was almost at the six year mark in our friendship to know that I am in love with Andrew. It came because I miss him when he is not here. It came because I worry about him when he's out of my reach because I don't know if he's being given the same care I give him. (Selfish Wayno, but "in love" makes the difference). It came because I would stand by my front door when Andrew left, leaning against the wall, holding both arms around myself, silently wishing Andrew would walk back in, tell me he loved me, and stay right here.

People have told me recently in mail that they feel I'm very protective of Andrew. A few, who used to talk to Andrew regularly in mail, think that I may even be over-protective. Actually I agree that I am. I admit that I do not read all of the mail to Andrew. Some of it isn't right to hear for him. It's only my judgment that says so, my opinion, but that's the way it is. I told Andrew that I filter his mail. There is a very small group (about 40 out of the 3200) that I do share everything with. Ten of those 40 have seen this journal, even before it was ready to be seen. Mail to and from those 40 gets read to Andrew, regardless of what they say. I suspect I've pissed off a few outside of the 40, though. I don't want to intentionally be a bad ass to anyone. At the same time, I don't want (selfish me ... *I* don't want) Andrew taking on something that he can't help out with. The world has beat a path to Joe's door and another to Andrew's. I read hundreds of messages a day. I like 99.5% of it and therefore Andrew hears it. To the rest, I'm sorry for being a bad ass.

This is almost at the end of this latest chapter. Usually by now, Andrew has thought about what will go in the next journal. He asked me already what I think should go in it. I gave him "you talking to me?" instead of an answer. So if you folks see a lag between this journal and the next, we're resting. Actually we're probably not really resting. We're probably finally letting mail get answered instead. It seems quite hard for me, personally, to work on a journal and keep up with mail, or keep up with mail and work on a journal. Both require some pretty serious time. Those who we try to talk to every day in mail will tell you that we are not talking every day in mail. And sometimes not even every 2 or 3 days. Maybe I'll just go and hold Andrew and stop caring. Then again . . .

Andrew has included song lyrics in past journals, things that have touched him. This is the one that does it for me. There is a distinct groove in the CD track from playing this one at least once a day. From Wayne to Andrew ... because this is a very cool song and mostly because I did win first prize, even though it cost me my heart in the process. It's a small price to pay to be an object of Andrew's love. He has a collection of hearts, and I dare say that he touches them each day, somehow:

Spanish Eyes by Backstreet Boys (from "Millennium")

Here we are in the arms of one another
And we still go on searching for each other
Knowing that hate is wrong and love is
right for us tonight
When I look into your Spanish eyes
I know the reason why I am alive
And the world is so beautiful tonight

It's a place I've never been
And it comes from deep within
And it's telling me that I'm about to win first prize
Knowing all I have to do
Is reach out my hand to you
Anytime I want to look into your Spanish eyes

Let it be if we're nothing more than dreamers
Who believe that we see no wall between us
How can they be in my heart and in my mind,
when all I could find
When I look into your Spanish eyes
I know the reason why I am alive
And the world is so beautiful tonight

It's a place I've never been
And it comes from deep within
And it's telling me that I'm about to win first prize
Knowing all I have to do
Is reach out my hand to you
Anytime I want to look into your Spanish eyes

I loved you from a distance
Thought I couldn't reach that far
I can't believe how close that we are
When I look into your Spanish eyes
And the world is so beautiful tonight

It's a place I've never been
And it comes from deep within
And it's telling me that I'm about to win first prize
Knowing all I have to do
Is reach out my hand to you
Anytime I want to look into your Spanish eyes

. . . to be continued (sooner or later).