"You should go home and play with your little girl."
That was my oncologist's parting counsel when we last saw him.
Walking us out, we discuss "talking about death" with our kids, his son's 7 and Che's 6, in front of a desk full of stone-faced, eavesdropping Nurses.
"You shouldn't do anything until it hurts and you're forced," my urologist concludes, minutes after meeting us.
He means we don't have to actually treat my newly diagnosed prostate cancer until it's too painful to ignore.
We take this as good news.
"We got it all. No need to call us back," the plastic surgeon says to the answering machine, referencing the basal cell cancer removed from my chest two days after learning about prostate cancer.
Once home, I'm sick with chills, night sweats, nausea and exhaustion, meaning the demands on Sarah triples, focusing on Che who's worried about me. We work hard to keep life "normal" for our daughter and, though she's used to such episodes, a deep level of exhaustion binds us.
I improve and our conversations drift to things we want to do but it's hard to think about anything beyond today.
Living life in 24 hour increments, Sarah plows through her work somehow, I don't know how, as we've cultivated a cloistered life, with established routines and expectations, that works well for us.
Even minor disruptions cause major havoc to what "quality time" we have, as energy spent on others robs us of what's needed to take care of ourselves. We're perpetually running on empty.
I go to Live Strong, the YMCA's fitness program for cancer survivors, though I can't participate while recovering from the skin cancer removal.
"Anybody want to compare scars?" I ask but my classmates are concentrating on working out and getting better.
Staring into the floor-to-ceiling mirror of the workout room I watch them but see myself, a ghastly skinny tan under long hair, dressed in an old baggy tee shirt and black running shorts held in place only by the tightest of drawstrings.
I'm fragile, sick and sad.
I want to be home with Sarah, so I leave in the middle of class.
After a sad attempt at lunch, Sarah and I sit at the table talking. She tells me one of her new patients died suddenly, just days after meeting him. Her parents are both undergoing treatment, her Mom's leukemia, her Dad had stents placed in his heart and they are planning to visit soon. Maddie's coming home at the same time, which happens to be Che's birthday week.
Flashing a tired smile, Sarah pauses, sips her Pepsi and says, "There's more."
I can't take any more!
"The car has a flat and the appointment to have it fixed isn't until next week."
The next day, I'm home alone, struggling to focus when I receive a text from Sarah: "I put the damn shopping cart back all the damn time. I am a good person. Just W ... T ... F?!"
WTF indeed.
"Don't forget you're volunteering at the school tomorrow," Sarah says later that night, as I rub her feet, watching television.
She thought i'd be good for me to join a group of Dads to welcome kids as they arrive for school.
"Che will be so excited," she finishes.
So in the morning, after Sarah reminds me again, I meet 3 other Dads who volunteered. Yellow Mariner Tee shirts were made for us and mine was the sole "medium" which easily slides over the tee shirt I'm already wearing.
The other Dads wear fluffy white Micky Mouse gloves.
I wish I'd thought of that.
Well, honestly I wish Sarah would have thought of that like she does everything else.
Taking position beside one of the entry points, we cheer, greet and high 5 elementary school kids sleepily or enthusiastically arriving for school.
They go nuts, jumping, slapping and laughing.
Rushing teachers giggle when they pass.
Che sees me in the distance, breaks into a smiling run straight into my arms and, damning Doctors orders, I pick her up and we hug.
"Mom says I can stay with you for a while," she says.
"Absolutely!"
After a few minutes, she kisses me goodbye to join friends who joyfully embrace her and they walk in mass down the hall.
The event ends, the Dads resolve to do it again next month and I make my way home.
"How was it?" Sarah asks.
"Awe, it was so good," I tell her grinning.
"I knew it would be," she smiles. "Tell me all about it."
And we laugh and celebrate what we have, which is each other.
