Footloose and Cancer Free
I'm ashamed to admit this but, it's true; my husband and I were once cheaters. Not in the Tiger Woods sense of the word, of course. But in the fact that long ago, when we were wild and childless, we'd go to the movies, see the feature we paid for and then sneak into one of the other films and watch it (shhhh) without buying another ticket.
We were strolling down memory lane and laughing about this and a dozen other things we did pre-parenthood on our way home today from the Lombardi Cancer Center. It was a wonderful way to pass the ninety minute ride, way better than re-hashing every single detail of the doctor visit we just left. We see my husband's oncologist about every two weeks, and every time I show up with my pen and my notepad and a heart so filled with hope I'm surprised my head doesn't pop off.
And every two weeks I leave, a little less hopeful, a little more frightened, and certain only of the uncertainty of my husband's cancer.
It's not the doctor's fault, by any means. He's a brilliant guy. He radiates concern and care and most importantly, hope. He never rushes my husband, listens like he's got all the time in the world, and answers all our questions. He always has a plan and, it bears repeating, is always positive. It's just that I want what he can't give us: a cure.
Or, barring that, a crystal ball so we can see what's coming and when. Too bad they don't teach fortune telling in medical school.
"Remember when Spike ran through the white paint and tracked paw prints across the gray couch?" My husband's cracking up at the thought of a cat we had a hundred years ago. "And it was new, too."
"It wasn't just the couch." I respond, glancing quickly at him then back at the highway. "Remember how hard it was to clean the rug?"
He squeezes my knee. "We didn't spend too much time cleaning it, if I remember correctly."
Ah, the good old days, when we were footloose and cancer free. Before tumors and Whipples and metastases and ERCPs and a stash of narcotic pain killers that could give the Medellin drug cartel a run for its money. Before jaundice and failed stents and weight loss the likes of which Nutrisystem's never seen. Before Medi Ports and infusion centers and scared kids who keep asking if dad will ever get better.
Screw medical school. The crystal ball should pass with the placenta.
"Good to see you're feeling better," I laugh, pushing his hand off my knee. "Want to duck into a movie and make out?" I nod in the direction of the Regal Cinema, coming up fast on our right. Fourteen movies; a veritable feast for former film filchers like us.
"Only if we can sneak into a second."
"With our luck we'll get arrested and the boys will have to bail us out."
The thought makes us both laugh. There's a memory we'd cherish for the rest of our lives. Maybe not as good as being footloose and cancer free. But close.
Susan McCorkindale writes about life on the funny farm on her daily blog, or just buy the book, Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl.
An original DC Metro Moms post.
