Six Years

I'm sitting in the atrium waiting room with my mom and sister, the sun streaming down. We are waiting, anxiously, for the surgeon to tell us the news. Suddenly they perk up and look at the back of a doctor. She's wearing a white coat, and her fluffy hair is pulled back into a barely-contained ponytail.

"I think that's her," my mom says.
"Dr. K.?" my sister asks.
"Don't you think?"

I look over. I have no recollection of what Dr. K. looks like. None at all. I remember her having a youthful face, but that's about it. That time period is so blurry to me now, although the anxious feelings are not.

My sister starts to say something about how she thinks it would be nice to go over and say hello, thank her for the surgery she successfully completed six years ago, when she removed the cancerous half of my dad's lung. Then she gets that look on her face, and I know she's going to cry.

"You go do it," my mom says. I start to get choked up as I watch her talk to another grave-faced family. Those feelings come rushing back and I hope she is not telling them the opposite of what we heard that day. I hope they are hearing "It all went well; he is in recovery; we got everything." But none of them smile, no waves of relief pass over their faces.

I try to divorce myself from the profound gratitude I have, because if I don't, I won't be able to talk to her. She turns toward us, and I know I have just a small window of time to reach her. I get up.

"Excuse me, are you Dr. K.?"
She looks surprised.
"I am."
"Um, hi. I'm K. D., and--" I used my maiden name.
"D? I recognize that name," she says, looking upward as she scans her memory for the patient. I fill in the blanks.
"Mr. D. is my dad, and six years ago you took out half his lung."
"Oh?" Then she looks around, nervously. "Why are you here?"
I laugh. She laughs.
I point over to my mom and my sister. "We're here waiting for him to come out of a hip replacement surgery."
She is visibly relieved, putting a hand to her heart.
"We just wanted you to know how grateful we are to you for the surgery that day, and what it did for our family. We just wanted to say thank you."
She has a wide grin that lights up her whole face, hand still to her heart.
"Wow, that makes me feel so good," she says. "When was his lung surgery, again?"
"Six years ago this month," I tell her, and that is when I start to feel like I might cry, but I hang on.
"Six years? Well, you know what they say about that, don't you?"
"No..."
"They call that a cure."

And just like that, six years later, she delivers one of the most powerful gifts I have ever received, just five small words. Thank you, Dr. K. Again.

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+."

One positive thing. . . and more stupidness that is March

*Edited to add link

Let's start with the positive news: it's now been THREE YEARS since my dad's lung surgery. You know, the one where he kicked cancer's ASS? Yeah, that surgiversary. He's been smoke-free ever since. So, so, so proud of him.

Rock on, Daddy!

Otherwise, crappy March rages on. This is always a terrible time of year in Minnesota. Just when you think it might be spring, you hear you'd better prepare for six inches of snow.

As I think I've mentioned here, I'm on a budget diet. It's been a big change for me. I know it's good for me, but I've pretty much hated it. And I've pretty much given up shopping, or doing much social stuff because I just shouldn't or can't. And I've been picking up work on the side, because it was getting me hopefully closer to my goal faster. (Although I am working on a really fun story right now that I'm really excited about, so that's a huge positive.)

BUT THAT CAN'T HAPPEN IF MY CAR KEEPS BREAKING.

Ugh, more time of no shopping, no spending, and fixing up my car. This time it's one, possibly two, wheel bearings. There goes the cute cruiser bike I wanted to get (and thought I had the cash for).

So frustrated.