Lungfuls of Air

Every Tuesday night, I get comfortable on my mat, and I breathe. It starts out with with those fits that I must think pass for breathing during the day. I realize, in those few moments, how few deep breaths I take, how rarely I attempt to flood my body with feel-good oxygen, how I don't breathe through stressful moments or to clear my aches, both psychological and physical.

In fact, I usually deprive my body by holding my breath—I take so little stock of this body of mine (except to berate how it's not fitting into my clothes) these days. I don't let my lungs do their job.

Two weeks ago, my parents were holding their breath. Two weeks ago, doctors spied a rogue spot on my dad's lung, through the magick of the x-ray machine. I didn't know. I could feel something was off, but now I know what it was.

It was the feeling of holding your breath. Wanting to break to the swirling water's surface before you drown, and suck in clean air to the soles of your feet. Waiting, swept up in the current. Waiting to surface. To wait. Wait. Wait.

A week is interminable when you think there's a spot.

My dad was called back for a CT scan to get a better look.

When I hear talk of CT scans, of spots, of counts, of surgeries, I hold my breath. My heart starts to pound, and instantly I feel hollowed out, my stomach somewhere south of here. A split second later, I tell myself—and the universe, in case someone is listening, that, whoops, sorry, I refuse to think those thoughts. Better to send out positive cell generation thoughts in the air than to think the worst. It's like my own knocking on wood. I have no idea if it's working, but so far it's working. Know what I mean? Like the Superman balloon from the Kilipino that still resides in my parents' front-hall closet, a moment of levity in a dark time, the meaning of it loud and clear. I'll take the small talismans, the hopes let go into the universe like balloons.

One year ago, I wrote this.

Today, I am writing this:

Whatever rogue spot dared show its face on the x-ray did not appear on the CT scan.

Why didn't you tell me earlier?
We wanted to make sure there was nothing.
You sure now?
Yes.
Positive?
Yes.
No spots. No nothing?
Yes.
Good news?
Yes.

I am holding my breath again.

Exhale.

Exhale.

Yes. Yes may be the most beautiful word in the universe, how have I never appreciated it? I force myself to breathe. It's shuddering and staggered, my hand to my mouth, my eyes filling.

My eyes are spilling over I am gulping and laughing and crying my chest hurts thinking relief is not even the word for this and we are all a little incredulous but certain, because of COURSE he's kicking cancer's ass for the third year running and cautiously happy but also riotously happy and crying even though the bad part is gone that specter is it ever gone? but yes it's gone because it's not an option anymore, and it's all running together it's good news, remember, and we have another year under our belts, all of us, we can breathe a little easier we are all breathing, breathing, breathing, and my mind is racing and I'm giddy and sad that we have to even do this but I am grateful and my god, it's been nearly four years, and when I hug him I think of the scar underneath and all I can say through choked breath is—

"Hey Daddy: A+."