“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Sarah says wistfully. “You?”“Yeah.”
“Da, can I watch YouTube on your phone?”
Zach has taken our order and we’re watching blue lights on bows of boats making their way from the Ocean to the safety of harbor.
Che props my phone against a ketchup bottle happy to be back in the modern world of cyberspace.
Sarah and I watch the boats glide through the clear waters of the Gulf while a rocking band plays ”Get Back” on the other side of the restaurant.
There’s only one restaurant on the island but it closes at 4. Two others lay just across a rickidy bridge, easy walking distance from the old Florida retro hotel my wife found.
We’re in desperate need of escape as we’re perplexed by words.
“While the radiologists conclude growth, we find it marginal and recommend continuing treatment as it is. We find the margins acceptable. Another scan will be scheduled in 3 months instead of the 5 or 6 we’d anticipated.”
The written report says the “innumerable bipolar hepatic metastasis” are all new but the old cancer didn’t grow, a classic example of “Good News/Bad News.”
Here’s our question: What’s an acceptable growth rate on an innumerable number?
“Those boats are racing Che!” Sarah exclaims, trying to draw our daughter back into the real world.
Che throws the phone on the table.
Our food arrives and throughout the meal, we eat, drink and make merry.
Che determinedly walks in the middle to hold both our hands as we make our way under a full moon across the narrow bridge.
On the Beach, I watch Sarah intensely staring off into space as I regain focus from my own 3 mile stares.
Che holds our hands everywhere we go as though in desperate fear of letting us go.
Holding on for dear life I suppose.
“Hey Da!” she says “let’s eat breakfast outside.”
Holding a bowl of frosted Cheerios in one hand she leads me to the Tiki Bar where we eat in the moonlight beside the Sea. In desperate need
