Waiting on my name to be called, I feel a commotion happening at the Mayo Clinic and look up to see a family gather to watch her ring the bell.
A slender, dark skinned woman with the brightest of smiles, and one forceful tug, yanks the rope.
TING! it loudly clangs and echoes.
Surrounding her in hugs, whooping and yelling, they dance.
I can't help but smile, happy for her, and her family still dancing in hugs and smiling for pictures. I send Sarah a quick text to share what I'm watching.
"I may ding it on the way out," I type. "Close as I'll ever get."
"Yep," my wife replies.
"Micheal!" I hear suddenly, breaking my smile.
Standing, I take a last look at the happiness of the bell, then force myself to follow the Nurse into the room for my injection.
When I walk out, the happy family and friends are gone but my daughter Kristen sits, waiting.
She rushes over, grabs my arm to lead me out and says, "I got you beer in the car."
When Sarah's not with me, I make it a point to find something I enjoy after an injection and that's normally beer for the ride home.
Turning up the music as she drives, Kris gives me lots of space to see how the shot affects me.
Sometimes, I get violently sick and pass out. Other times, it's days before I feel any effects. I never know.
Tom Petty's wandering through the wildflowers, Kristen's singing along, I stare out the window, sip beer and text Sarah.
"My entire life I have ridden down and up I-95 listening to great music and drinking beer ... I love and relish each and every time ... some way more than others."
A heart emoji appears.
"Eternity is a long time, especially towards the end," Stephen Hawking said and it always gives me pause whenever it comes to mind, as I sip beer, listening to Kristen and Tom Petty sing about somewhere you'll feel free, ready to be home.
