"If you continue to feel better, I don't know if I want you getting any more treatment," Sarah says.
Her feet are propped in the chair under the table cluttered with our dirty dishes, as are mine, as we sit, talking long after dinner is over. Che's on the sofa, headphones on and playing a game on her I-Pad so Sarah and I linger.
"That's the sweetest thing you've said to me in forever," I beam, sitting upright, feet on the floor.
We stare at one another in a pregnant silence.
No more treatment sounds good right now.
The chemo shots I've taken for the last 2 1/2 years stopped working and I may be a candidate for Nuclear Medicine but, for the moment, I'm taking nothing other than daily vitamins and supplements.
And I feel good.
Physically I'm no better but mentally, the cancer fog's dissipating, focus is better and there's a bit more energy.
We've gone and done a few things recently that have been tremendous fun but, mainly, Sarah and I sit, talking.
We linger.
The conversations are mostly the every day stuff of life. The demands of Sarah's work, the girl's school, trips we want to take, how crazy the economy is and what's wrong with the world?
But we're also taking an inventory of ourselves. Surviving the past 4 years, no small feat in an of itself, has changed us.
I simply can't do the things I once could, both physically AND mentally. The extent of my social network is Sarah, the girls, whoever I see when Lainey drags me for a walk, an occasional phone call and whatever I manage on social media.
There are no breaks.
But we do find ourselves in a glade right now, an open space in the sinister forests of cancer. It's suddenly better than it's been for a while.
We clear the dishes, clean the kitchen, and join Che, still on the sofa. We cuddle, as everyone does their own thing, relaxing, talking or watching something on television.
It'll be hard to move from this sweet spot when the time comes.
