It’s so silent that it makes you scream inside. Did I miss something? How could I have missed something so… rampant inside of my own body? You rack your brain, going over the events, trying to make sense of it all.
Cancer.
March 1, 2015. I was in a bar. My oncologist wrote me an email, telling me she needed to talk. She called my cell phone. I knew by her tone and her, “I normally do not do this but you had specified that you wanted to know right away” that there were no good sentences after this one.
I put myself on mute, paid the bartender, signed my receipt, then scribble onto the cocktail napkin, “yesterday I was fine.”
I kept that cocktail napkin in my underwear drawer, under my intimates, so no one would dare find it. It has served for 5 years as a living reminder that I never know what’s coming. But more recently, it has served as another kind of reminder. Of the freedom and fear that come from something being too late to fix it. Of the clarity that comes right after complete discombobulating news like: Cancer.
5 months ago, my grandmother died, at the beautiful age of 100. Her daughters were there, holding her hand and singing to her. I had already said goodbye, my stepfather and cousins too. She was ready. My aunt Jill had cared for her well, ensuring that she kept her autonomy for as long as possible. Helping her wrap things up. She made it so that we didn’t need to change our careers because grandma needed help. She sacrificed her future for ours.
This past week, her ticket came up, too. Only 5 months after she said goodbye to her mother for whom she cared daily, Jill was diagnosed with stage IV renal cell carcinoma. She will die this year, too. Something we never expected as a family, something she never expected as a person. And now, I know why I held this napkin as long as I have…
To give it to her.
To the woman who has become my best friend through caring for our favorite person together. To the woman who is stronger and more resilient than she will ever know. To the woman who is kind and stubborn and hard working and honest and funny. To the woman who always has cared for others above herself. I know the Great Universe has something beautiful in store for you, Jill.
I just hope I get a little bit of time to thank you by caring for you in the way you have cared for all of us.
Cancer is a sneak attack from the sneakiest rogue of all.
And it stabbed me straight in the heart.
Chapter 3. 