Joe, 53
When Jess squeezes my ass in passing, it’s like she’s reaffirming my humanity
I’ve always been very sexual, and that’s as true now as ever – maybe even more so. When you’re grappling with terminal cancer, your tactile experiences are generally traumatic – there’s so much pricking and slicing, probing and scanning, to say nothing of the poisons being pumped into your body – and after a while it’s tempting to just mentally detach. There have been times in the past few years when I’ve felt more like the subject of a medical experiment than the person I used to be, but when Jess caresses my arm or squeezes my ass in passing, it’s like she’s reaffirming my humanity, reminding me that touch can be enjoyed, not just endured.
Before my diagnosis, Jess and I would often have sex more than once a day, and it would be easy for her to resent how much that part of our lives has changed, but she’s never made me feel like I’ve let her down when my body refuses to cooperate. We’ve both had to navigate me using feeding and draining tubes, to adjust to me being skeletal, then bloated, then skeletal again – but the fact that she’s been so vocal about how attractive she finds me throughout all of this has made it so much easier to cope.
When I’ve been feeling well, we’ve actually had more fun with sex than ever – experimenting in ways we’ve never done in almost 13 years together, such as using different toys – and when intercourse is impossible, Jess still finds ways to make me feel good. The other day, I was too fragile after a procedure to do much, but she jokingly offered a sensual massage – to include topless shimmying – which made me laugh but also really turned me on.
There’s no curing the cancer I’m battling, but sex with Jess is its own form of healing. We’re sleeping in separate rooms right now because I’ve been having spasms and hiccups at night, but just this morning I got under her blankets, and she massaged my thighs. In spite of all the recent symptoms, side-effects and surgeries, this surge of desire for her ran through me. The time we’ve got left together might be limited – a few years, or even months – but Jess and I will always find ways to celebrate each other physically, whatever state my body’s in. Cancer takes so much from you, but it could never rob me of the thrill I feel when she puts her hands on my skin.
Jess, 49
I always see him as my lover rather than a patient
Our sex life – like the rest of our life – has been a rollercoaster since Joe got his diagnosis, but neither of us can fathom going without altogether. You’re so medically intimate with your partner when you’re supporting them through cancer treatment, but when I’m in bed with Joe, I always see him as my lover rather than a patient.
Before Joe and I met in my late 30s, I never thought of myself as a tactile person. I’d carried a lot of fear around sex, having witnessed marital rape between my parents growing up. And although I’d been with my first husband since I was 15 years old, I’d never really been attracted to him. Privately, I believed I might be asexual. Then Joe and I enrolled on the same writing course, and I felt this magnetic pull towards him. Even the scent of his patchouli across the room would excite me. We waited to sleep together until we’d separated from our partners, but once we did Joe precipitated what I can only describe as my own sexual revolution. I doubt I’d be able to go 24 hours without touching him in some way now.
Sometimes it’s more challenging to be intimate since his diagnosis, but I love him too much not to figure it out. We’ve always found a way to laugh through the complications. I remember, during a particularly overwhelming hospital workshop early on, both of us were cracking up at the idea of having to use condoms again to keep me from being exposed to Joe’s chemo drugs – like, come on, I’m nearly 50, and he’s had a vasectomy! Another silver lining is that this whole experience has forced me to let go of my bodily insecurities; if Joe is willing to be intimate with me when he’s this vulnerable, am I really going to be worrying about my stomach?
Being a caregiver and supporting us financially can be exhausting, and there are days when sleep feels more important than sex, or when my mind spirals about what our lives will be like in six months. But when that happens I remind myself of what we’ve got right now: today, each other and touch. It’s a privilege to be able to help him find pleasure in his body, the way he taught me to find pleasure in mine, for as long as I have the power to do it.
