An unexpected detour
The Curse of the C’s
We flew back to our hometown for family visits, yearly physicals, business meetings. We had been away only three months, but already we noticed things big and small that looked unfamiliar. The flowering trees that announced the coming spring — a contrast to all that desert landscape out West. The finished construction on the local highway that was transformed by the addition of “lexus lanes”. The eateries and shops that closed and the brand new ones that opened.
Having now traveled in many parts of the country, we had points of comparison, and our hometown did not fare badly. During the crazy years of running our business and raising our family, both N. and I had been too busy to appreciate it, but driving around the old neighborhoods this time made us appreciate the dumb luck that had led us to settle in this corner of the country.
***
We were next headed to Grand Canyon National Park. (The pilot of our flight was kind enough to point it out, so many people got up and looked to the starboard side windows. Even from 35,000 feet, it looked beautiful and “grand” and, even in a plane, it took quite some time to fly over.)
So after a routine flight to Los Angeles — where our van was parked at a relative’s house — we were waiting in the baggage claim area of the LAX airport when I noticed a voicemail from my doctor. I had missed her call earlier in the day because of the usual airport transit fuss; she had left her personal cell phone number, which did not seem like a good sign.
When I called back, she began with the usual pleasantries but her shaky voice betrayed the seriousness of the news she had to break: a scan report did not look good; the “C” word was mentioned.
My head was spinning. I heard this news next to a baggage claim carousel, with people walking in and out of restrooms and with the PA system blabbing warnings about not accepting bags from strangers. If I say so myself, I thought I sounded more calm than the doctor. It can’t be easy to break such news to patients over the phone. I asked questions; answers were elusive. A biopsy was necessary.
We didn’t bother leaving the airport. N. and I worked the phones/internet and after some frustration with the glitches on its system, we managed to buy tickets from Alaska Airlines (!) for a flight that left at 11:40 pm that night and arrived back home at 7:28 am the next morning. N. held my hand throughout the flight.
In less than 24 hours, we had flown from coast to coast to coast.
***
While waiting for the day of my biopsy, N. and I spent some time at a local library.
“Hey, maybe I should check out this book — it’s called When Breath Becomes Air,” N. said.
“Do you know what it’s about?” I asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“Are you trying to hint that I should start writing a book?”
N. did not check out this particular book.
***
I had the procedure in a room that looked more like a storage closet, a whole wall taken up by metal shelves filled to the rafters with medical supplies. Everyone I encountered was professional but extremely kind during an anxiety-filled experience. I did find some measure of dark amusement in the doctor’s name — a Dr. Grimm. Results would be available in 2-5 business days.
In order to distract us from an agonizing wait, N. started to complain of chills, sore throat, and muscle aches. Just in case, I swabbed his nose with a home test kit and, lo and behold, two bold red lines appeared on the results strip.
I will confess that the first thought that came to mind was a resounding “I-told-you-so!”: it served him right. He thought I was nuts for still masking; he walked around as if he had never heard of a pandemic. N. had most likely picked the bug up on our flight to LAX — for which I was masked — that had sounded like a symphony of individuals coughing, sneezing, and generally acting as human phlegm factories.
We had planned to spend a few days at Grandma’s place, but we were now cursed to spend them at motels, all of which had those dreaded popcorn ceilings. The only saving grace was the fact that, after having somehow dodged Covid for three years, N. had got sick while we were on home turf, so getting him treatment was not as challenging as it would have been had we been on the road.
***
By Day 5, this waiting business was driving me mad. At one point I was convinced that I had felt a twinge that seemed, well, malignant somehow. While I was anxious to know the results, it struck me that this limbo might be the lesser evil: at this exact moment, I could truthfully say that I was not sick.
I distracted myself by reading a new novel and knitting a new sweater — not at the same time.
***
We were in the office for a follow up appointment for N. when the doctor walked in, looked at me, and exclaimed,
“I’m so glad you’re here too, because the test results just came back. I have good news…”
I burst out crying.
And so was the Curse of the C’s — Covid and Cancer Close Call — broken.
***
One of N.’s ’s mantras is to carpe diem the heck out of his retirement, partly because he has heard so many stories that scare him. One is about a well respected professor and scholar at a seminary that he attended. After a long academic career, the professor had finally retired and had been looking forward to traveling and pursuing other interests. Soon — too soon — N. heard news that the professor had suffered an accident in his own home, and would be bed-bound. Nothing scares N. more than this story.
We will be on the road again soon.
***