An excerpt from a little something I’ve written đź’™
August 5, 2013, 9:00am
“Happy Anniversary Babe,” he said from his hospital room.
“Happy Anniversary – thirteen years! I love you!”
“I love you too,” he said before hanging up.
I’d been up for awhile with our five children, getting them breakfast and settled in some activity I can’t seem to remember. I’d woken up to a yellow post-it note on the mirror saying he’d driven himself to the hospital during the night. He thought he could weather the five minute drive from our home to the hospital. That way we didn’t have to find emergency-middle-of-the-night childcare for our children. Our oldest was 9 years old, and our fifth baby was 12 months.
“I’ve got a colonoscopy scheduled later, and I’ll call when it’s finished. I love you.”
“I love you too Babe.”
I hung up. It was the last time I’d speak to the man I thought was in good health, with whom I’d dreamt of celebrating 50 years of marriage, retiring on the coast, watching our grandchildren play. It was all going according to plan.
August 5, 2013, 1:30pm
“Babe, it’s cancer. Don’t worry, it’s going to be okay.”
I wish I can remember what I said. I don’t. I didn’t know what to think. He’d already been diagnosed with a mild form of skin cancer – the kind that takes a biopsy and some cream on his skin for a few weeks – and it’s life as usual.
Just minutes before, I kissed my littlest boy on the forehead and laid him down in the pack-n-play for his afternoon nap. My older sons, ages 4 and 6, were having quiet time in their room, and my 8 and 9 year old daughters were quietly reading. I laid down on his side of the bed to rest when his call came in.