You have a long day at work, constantly thinking and wondering and anxious. You're a little on edge, and that damn new copy machine [read: office hand-me-down] is just being a piece of shit. The public is crankier than usual, you find yourself biting back comments, cutting off retorts before they drip from your lips.
You look over your shoulder at the clock even though you fully realize that it can't be more than 5 minutes that have passed.
Your stomach sinks a little when it's 3:00--the time you know she's in the appointment. You take your break and do some breathing and calm yourself down.
You text your sister, asking if she thinks there will be a text. [Dad's great at sending cryptic text messages for any such event.] She says she hopes, that she even requested a phone call. It crosses your mind that you should text yourself. Or call. But you're scared.
3:30. 4:00. 4:30. 5:00.
And now you know.
Those 3 hours pass excruciatingly slow. You punch out, get in the car and drive home. Your dad opens the door before you even have a chance to put the key in the lock. This has never happened before. Ever. He tells you everyone is outside and we all need to talk.
You go to wash up, and your sister is in tears in the bathroom. You don't say anything, because what is there to say? You don't ask anything, because you shouldn't hear it from her. And she might exaggerate. She might not have it all straight. You accept that the breast cancer came back and now we have to kick it's ass again.
You go outside to a sea of sad faces--another sister who just finished crying, a cousin who stares blankly ahead, her boyfriend looking slightly uncomfortable but supportive. You walk over to your mom and give her a hug. She kisses your cheek and tells you.
You fully expect to hear: "The breast cancer came back."
Instead you get, "They found a spot on my liver."
You don't really register lots of stuff after that. You sort of hear that it is very important to start the chemo as soon as possible. Monday morning in fact. 3 weeks on, 1 week off. They don't know how long, because they don't know how bad it is yet or how it will respond to treatment.
Your mind flashes back to see her there; pale and skinny, wisps of hair clinging to her white head. You remember when it all fell out, in clumps, and when you had to shave her head. You see the discomfort and weakness that the treatment causes. You despair.
You numbly eat a hot dog because, once again [or as always], work has made you late for family dinner. It doesn't really taste like anything. You try and crack some jokes, and wonder why there isn't a lump in your throat.
Before she leaves for a visit to the monastery, you get a couple minutes alone with her. The doctor specifically made her appointment his last, so he could spend as much time with her as she needed. He walked in and told her: "This is serious." No family reunion trips to SC. "We have to start as soon as possible."
She is strong as ever. Obviously upset, sort of in that "here we go again" mode. But she isn't crying. She doesn't tear up. She is strong. So you decide you are just going to be strong again too.
Today you are reminded, and you are forced to remember. Today was what you feared, and a little bit worse. Your faith is shaken, your fragile smile falters. You try and harden yourself for what comes next. For the next tomorrow.
But today. Today...
