Like Matt, I realize I need to start from the beginning. Art and I were married for 14 years. We have three children. On August 24, 2006 he was diagnosed with Large B Cell Lymphoma, Stage IV, primarily in his lungs. He was an athlete. In March 2007 we were told he was in remission.
We lived apprehensively at first, always fighting right before he had to have tests. Always making love the night before his appointment because we knew he was clear. (Doctors really don't call with good news!)
On January 12, 2009, less than two years of being cancer free, it was discovered that the cancer had returned and was stage IV.
They came into the room tonight, two of them. Familiar faces, dressed in their white coats.
They mouthed words. Words that sounded like:
Worse than before
Chemo on Friday
I heard them and felt detached. Those poor men, the two doctors, delivering such difficult news to this wonderful couple. Problem is Art and I are that couple.
Later, I leave the room, head to the car, pay the parking attendant and then everything else comes between sobs and screams.
This is what we try to protect our children from. This sharp, deep pain.
No, no... those are not the right words.
Gut wrenching. No, no.
It feels like someone is pulling my insides down and out and in and sideways. No rhythm to the motion. No sense.
The wave of fear and loss come over and under me, I lose my footing. I pull over. I want to scream at the drivers as they pass me
“STOP. You must STOP! I’m falling. Everything must stop!”
For that moment, everything I know is a false. And I want the world to stop so I can get a finger hold, a fingerprint hold, find a place where I can begin to find my balance.
This is our journey. Mine. Art’s.
The cancer is back.
The fucking cancer is back.
Oh my God