I'm no longer qualified to determine how old is old as I continue to think I'm 20 something when I'm actually dancing through my sixth decade.
"What did your husband die of?" one asks the other.
"Pancreatic cancer," she replies.
"My husband has stage 4 pancreatic cancer," my wife adds.
"Oh! How old is he?" they ask and proceed with a nice conversation until yoga begins.
Telling me the story, Sarah adds, "I almost told them that you have the 'good kind' of pancreatic cancer but I didn't have it in me."
I understand the moments of heaviness that our life now is sometimes we simply don't have it in us to say anything any more.
"You look good," people tell me if I go out, which isn't often because I'm at-risk for everything and Covid would likely kill me quickly, so I try to minimize my exposure, which is hard.
Of course I believe I look great and wonder why it took a cancer diagnoses for everyone else to see it.
I still check myself out in most any mirror I pass and, let me tell you, I don't know if there are cancer beauty pageants or not, but I can compete!
I think what people mean when they tell me how good I look is "you don't look like you're dying."
I appreciate that because I certainly don't feel like I'm dying.
If anything, life is something of a hoot for me right now.
It was one Hell of a good time last night as we celebrated Cassidy's 14th birthday.
It helped that I was high as a kite because of weed I'd smoked about half-an-hour before dinner.
Sarah learned as we prepared for Whipple surgery to remove the cancer, I could choose either hospital prescribed narcotics for pain or marijuana.
The Whipple support group Sarah belongs to was split equally but the oxycodone users weren't particularly enthusiastic while the others happily encouraged "DO THE POT MAN!" conjuring images of Cheech and Chong.
Anyway I laughed last night as I hadn't in a long, long time ... that deep eruption of convulsions leaving me hunched over, tears of joy streaming down my face and sucking in air to continue.
Laurel and Cass enjoy me enjoying everything about us being together.
Sarah eyes me suspiciously to make certain I'm really okay and nothing bad is happening.
She's the reality checker, a thankless, empty, tough love function to make certain I keep myself in the best position to continue living ... with her!
Later, we're exhausted, collapsed on the sofa, watching television, wondering how suddenly every single show on Netflix or Disney has a character with stage 4 pancreatic cancer.
They're not on the show for very long.
Sarah and I laugh.
What else can you do?
I cling to the conviction that laughter is the best medicine.
In the meantime, I stay in, or near, the Living Room most of the time.
It's too dangerous to go anywhere else.
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