The honour here is being attentive to the other person; being clear-eyed about the best moments and also those that are bleak: prolonged bad moods, silences, bouts of jealousy, crises of doubt, and staggering grief. But there is also the best most people can ever hope for: great sex; carousing; dancing; theatre; music concerts; great food (mostly cooked by Gerry); rich humour; films; and travel. The joy they both share in the company of their children and grandchildren, their extended family and friends; the subtle, succoring pleasure of being in each other’s company, rewatching Buffy, say, or The Wire, with the aim of getting to the end of the series.

Debbie’s portrayal of her relationship with Gerry is as masterfully attentive as it is searching, even after Gerry’s passing. Searching for who he is, (I use the present tense here, because Gerry is undeniably present in this book), and who they are together. Debbie is documenting the power of this very particular kind of love—two people over decades, creating a family, ensconced in a community. The concentric circles of intimacy that can ripple from the center of such a couple to the children, grandchildren, extended family, friends and work colleagues. 

Community is big here. An arts community. A community that in St. John’s, (and perhaps in arts communities everywhere), knows each other’s business and feels free to weigh in, and a community that, on the other hand, draws together to offer nightly meals and support when Gerry is getting weaker and the family needs help. 

There’s also an online community to which Gerry was clearly a beloved contributor and which, later, encroaches on the privacy the family requires in the first waves of grief after Gerry has died. A community well-meaning but sometimes insensitive to the rawness close relatives feel while experiencing loss.  

 Cautiously Pessimistic is a very close reading of a relationship and a journey through cancer. McGee must be drawing on her work as a documentary filmmaker, because it feels as though this story is demanding of the author a scrupulous, exacting honesty, (or else telling the truth is her default position) and in so doing, the writing often provokes such unexpected tenderness, that I was moved to tears by oddest things—the decision, for example, that Gerry and Debbie both agreed upon, to not write their own wedding vows because they both felt “…the words of the civil ceremony were complete.” They had already been together for years when they decided to get married. 

Debbie includes the version of the vows they spoke: “I call all persons present to witness that I, Gerry, do take you, Debra, to be my lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, and I pledge to you, my faithful love.”  

The pragmatic simplicity of those overly familiar vows awaken in this context a thoroughly unfamiliar ring of sincerity and even profundity, interwoven as they are with the story of Gerry’s progressing cancer, and his and Debbie’s braveness as death approaches. 

I agree: they are complete. 

Throughout, Debbie interweaves chapters that alternate the past with the present of Gerry’s rapidly unfolding illness. This structure makes both timelines equally absorbing, propulsive, each thread informing the other, the past creating the present and the present informing our understanding of the past. 

Debbie also includes funny posts by Gerry from his social media platforms. There are Gerry’s cartoons, one which shows two men in an office, a university degree hanging on the wall. 

The caption reads: “I’m sorry. I’m an ontologist. I can’t treat your cancer, but I can prove you exist.”   

There are also text messages between family and friends concerning the rapid deterioration of Gerry’s health; Gerry’s obituary which Debbie wrote with Gerry’s input; and her own diary entries and emails to friends written in the early stages of their relationship, as they stumbled and then found their way to each other. And later, texts with family and friends helping to navigate the organization of Gerry’s medical care, and excerpts of Gerry’s own daily diaries, including brief mentions of conversations, appointments, attended arts events. There are playlists and song lyrics. This ephemera creates an archive of the voices, the choir of Gerry and Debbie’s world. 

What is most moving here is the portrait of Gerry Porter as a person, known widely for his wit, his cartoons, theatre posters, love of experimental music and his political commentary on twitter and other platforms—who is also a loving and engaged father and grandfather, brother to Lisa Porter, a loving son—a man with many friends who cherish him. A loving husband. Even in missteps, Gerry appears to be a beautiful, ultimately reasonable person who behaves with grace. A portrait without sentimentality, and yet rich with sentiment. A portrait created with layers of sediment, the accretion of moments that create mountain ranges, a rich and complex life. 

And at the same time, seemingly by accident, a strong portrait of Debbie emerges, clear-eyed, passionate, spiritual, a feminist, an artist, also fiercely loving and loved. Throughout, Debbie tries to know what she wants and finds the ways to ask for it. She expresses doubt about her fairness in some situations, but she often searches for what is essential to her, necessary for the relationship to work. 

Arguably, the ability of many women to articulate what they need from intimate relationships is an underground fire feminism has yet to truly dig into. This book is a sudden rain on those hot spots. In Debbie and Gerry’s case: they come through for each other, again and again. 

Another moving thing: Debbie attends Gerry’s cremation. 

“I was left alone with him, and during that time I told Gerry what was going on. “So, you died, Gerry, and you’re going to be cremated in a short while. I’ll keep you company.” 

This book is all about keeping company. Therefore, it’s also a book about precious moments that blaze with extraordinary happiness. 

And here is remembering as an act of love. 

Lisa Moore is the author of the bestselling novels Alligator, February, and Caught; the story collections Open and Something for Everyone; and a young adult novel, Flannery. Her books have been finalists for the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize, CBC Canada Reads, the Writers’ Trust Fiction Prize, the Scotiabank Giller Prize, and the Man Booker Prize. Lisa lives in St. John’s, Newfoundland.