We went to Ellis Fischel today to meet with Aaron's oncologist. We cuddled and cried and bought some breakfast and cracked jokes about Aaron's heartrate being too slow to detect.
He's one calm dude. At his cancer check-up, his heartrate was 58. I figured mine was twice the speed, but no one was checking me.
After the nurse had been in our room nearly 10 minutes, typing away, taking Aaron's vitals, she asked, 'and who is this,' waving toward me. Aaron said, 'my girlfriend.' She quickly typed a line and left the room.
Cancer broke into our life last January. It left me with fear and memories and loss. But, it also woke me up. I'm not the invincible teenager I once was, with timeless expectations and infinite possibility. Life is a series of intentional decisions and I can see that now. Aaron's cancer gave me that clarity of vision and that appreciation of time.
It's been about five months since his initial diagnosis. We've been through surgery, a rough few days filled with pain pills and sorrow. The knife cut out the cancer, but it also left a bright red wound that turns to purple in the cold; a constant reminder of our mortality.
The recovery was slow at first, then the semester caught us off guard. We woke up one morning a few weeks after surgery with looming assignments and the promise of yet another research paper. I buried myself in books, sharpening my thoughts, taking to research and studies like that knife to Aaron's skin.
Aaron's appointments are always scheduled on a Tuesday. We are always placed in a sterile room with that famous John Lennon lyric, 'life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.' I've noticed that doctors like consistency.
I like that lyric, but only because the doctors keep giving us good news. I think I would permanently maim that paint job if a doctor told me I had just a few months to live. The fact that John Lennon died prematurely would be of no comfort to me in that moment.
On this particular Tuesday, there was no maiming of any property. Dr. Hossein walked in and before he had a chance to sit down, I blurted out, "Is everything ok?"
He smiled. My tension immediately faded and I started crying. For now, no cancer has developed. Aaron and I have another three months before the suspense begins to build again. Every time it gets easier. Maybe that's because this experience has become routine and I know what to expect, or at least I think I do. Or, maybe it's because time builds optimism.
Either way, I'm grateful for today; for the good news that Aaron does not have cancer.
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