"The way you been writing man," he says leaning forward on the sofa, peering over his sunglasses, having unexpectedly dropped by, "makes everybody think it's bad. I had to see for myself."
"What?" I reply from the other sofa, hugging myself, surfing on low energy.
"Dying," he says, rubbing one hand on top of the blue bandana covering his head. "You write like you're a goner, Dude," he challenges. "I had to see for myself so I'm here."
I sigh.
He has cancer too.
His was devastating, though he still manages a very active life, had horrific news that's immediately followed by good news and now he is on a high!
"You're talking about my writing?" I ask.
"Yeah," he explodes in a weakened yet still loud voice, "you write like you're dying. Like now, man!"
"Really?"
"Yeah," he exacerbates. "You go on about it, like you're getting ready to die now or something."
"Actually, I think I'm pretty funny," I say defensively.
He then goes on to relate his good news, hoping it rubs off on me.
After about 15 minutes I explain I'm beat, he takes his cue, we hug, and he threatens to return soon.
I'm pretty matter-of-fact writing about death. It is what it is, it's coming sooner than I want and that's simply part of life.
When Sarah and I talk about it, we review facts but spend most of our time cracking jokes.
"Hey Baby," my wife says entering the room, "with your treatment not working and the oncologist referring you to Nuclear medicine, do you think we can raise the prices on the books we haven't sold yet?"
It takes a moment and, BOOM, we are laughing our asses off.
Laughing is a key component of the way Sarah and I dance and right now we're waltzing into more dark unknowns, holding onto one another as ominous music plays somewhere.
We know this next round of treatment is not a cure. We know that only a miracle, or death, will make me cancer free.
So we live.
Not fighting a battle with my cancer, but dancing.
Most every afternoon we walk to the end of the street to wait on Che, getting out of school.
She smiles when she sees us waiting on her to cross the street. Mrs D, the beloved crossing guard, gives the single and the kids make a mad dash, excited to be free, and Che runs straight into my arms singing, "You and me, always, forever," like a Disney Princess.
Grabbing Sarah's hand, while continuing to hold mine, we dance laughing and loving what we have now because, it's the life we have and, we're going to dance.
