2016

It was a typical Friday in July in many ways. Jack had gone to walk the dogs along Bloody Run Creek, as he did almost every day. I was holed up at home, a month from my first hip replacement, getting around with a walker or in a wheelchair. We were waiting to hear the results from Jack’s biopsy. He was sure it was nothing. I tended to agree. What could a little speck on his thigh do to my mighty mountain man? Still, there was a tiny gnawing in my belly that wouldn’t quite leave me be.

The phone rang, and it was Rodriquez’s office. I was expecting a secretary, but the doctor himself was on the line. “I need to see you both in my office first thing Monday morning,” he said.  The tiny gnaw ballooned and sunk to my intestines.

“Don’t make us wait all weekend,” I begged him, after I told him where Jack was. “Please talk to us over the phone.”

A pause and then: “There is cancer, and I will need to talk to you both at once. When should I call back?”

I settled in the chair in the center of the front room of our little cabin. The words echoed and stretched. “There is cancer…”.

In that moment my awareness and reality were stretched like a giant rubber band. I saw everything before and after in this lifetime. I saw the inevitability of what was to come, and that I had at some level consciously signed up for it. I knew that I was supposed to be here with Jack at this time and to go on this journey with him. I understood that our meeting and our coming together and our oneness were all sacred, a direct line from the divine. Simultaneously, I felt contracted into the present moment. I felt beyond scared, beyond terrified. I felt horribly sad.

When Jack came in I told him that Rodriquez had called and would call back. I decided to let the bad news come out of the doctor’s mouth. Part of this was cowardice, I suppose. Part was that I didn’t want him to associate me with the bad news. Beyond that, I wanted him to have these last few moments before his reality changed forever.

“Oh good,” he said, “They never tell you over the phone if you have cancer. They make you come into the office.” He didn’t see me wince since he had gone into the other room.

And so the phone rang, the clearest line of demarcation I’ve experienced. Jack handed it to me, and I answered it and put it on speaker. This was our phone ritual with important calls. I felt a little like a midwife then, having more information than the patient and able to guide him through the labyrinth that was in his immediate path. Jack went into an immediate stew of shock and denial, staring at the speck on his thigh and back at the phone.

“So is this skin cancer, melanoma?” I asked, staring at the speck.

“No, it’s a rare cancer. It is soft tissue sarcoma.”

“I explained to you in the office last week what happens next, and how we all work together through our local hospital. On Monday you’ll want to make an appointment with the radiology team. They will have your information. We’ll take it from there.”

We hung up and sat for a moment in absolute silence.

“It’s gotta be a mistake,” he insisted. “I feel great and it’s just a speck.”

“Whatever it is we’ll deal with it together,” I said, massaging his hand while I studied it. I soaked in his wedding ring.

“Cancer?” he said, shaking his head. “What the fuck?”  He got up to make us each a drink.

I stared out the window at the growing twilight.

Jack’s daily ritual of walking the dogs along Bloody Run Creek, which is only a few miles from the farm.

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Friends have created a GoFundMe to help CC with the medical debt from Jack’s 30 month bout with cancer. If you can help, this is the link. If you’ve already helped–thank you from the bottom of our hearts. You’ve really made a difference.