Three weeks after my last chemo session, a stranger mailed me a sympathy card. "We're so sorry for the loss of Whitney," it said. I am Whitney. My name is Whitney Calder. I'm 38, and I live in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Last March, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Stage two. Surgery. Six rounds of chemo. Then radiation. I lost my hair. My eyebrows. Twenty-two pounds. My husband, Lance, drove me to exactly one appointment. After that, he said hospitals made him “anxious.” He started working late. Weekend trips for “client dinners.” A new gym membership. New cologne. I was too sick to fight about it. Most days, I could barely get from the bed to the bathroom. Then, last Tuesday, a pink envelope arrived at our house. No return address I recognized. Inside was a card with lilies on the front. “Dear Lance, we are so sorry for the loss of Whitney. She sounded like a wonderful woman. Our family is praying for you. —The Ortegas.” I read it four times. Then I sat down on the kitchen floor, because my legs stopped working. I typed the Ortega name and Lance's company into Facebook. It took nine seconds to find. A fundraiser page. “Support Lance Calder After the Loss of His Beloved Wife.” There was a photo of me. Before cancer. Smiling at our wedding. Under it, Lance had written: “Whitney fought so hard. She lost her battle on September 2nd.
I’m still learning how to breathe without her.” September 2nd. That was the day of my last chemo. He hadn’t even come. The page had raised $48,215. Two hundred and nine donors. His coworkers. His boss. People from our church. And at the bottom was an announcement. “Celebration of Life for Whitney. Friday, 6 p.m. Novak Energy Group, Rooftop Terrace. Lance will be sharing a few words.” Friday was tonight. I didn’t call Lance. I called his sister, Gwen, instead. No answer. I texted her the link. Thirty seconds later, she called back. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Whitney, he told us you didn't want visitors. He said you'd asked him not to tell anyone how bad it was.” “Did he tell you I was dead?” “No. He told us you were doing better.” So he'd built two different lies for two different crowds. At 4 p.m., Lance texted me. “Late meeting tonight. Don't wait up. Love you.” Love you. I stared at those words for a long time. Then I opened my closet. My wig was on the top shelf. I didn't touch it. I put on the blue dress I’d worn to Lance's company Christmas party two years ago. It hung loose on me now.
The Rooftop Terrace
The elevator doors opened onto a dazzling scene. The Novak Energy Group rooftop terrace glittered with fairy lights, a live jazz trio played softly, and people… so many people… milled about, holding glasses of wine and looking somber. My somber. I felt like an intruder in my own life. Gwen spotted me immediately, her face a mask of shock. She rushed over, nearly knocking over a waiter with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. "Whitney! You came." It wasn't a question. "I wanted to see this," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "To see what he’s done." Gwen squeezed my hand, her grip tight. “He's been… unbearable. Acting. Practicing grief in the mirror. It's disgusting."
What happened just seconds later left everyone in the room completely speechless… (Continue to Part 2 →)
