How I survived myself

  I know it is not good news when I get the call from my sister to meet her right away at your house on a Monday morning. She gives no further information. I breathe. I brush my teeth, get dressed, eat a slice of toast and wait until I’m certain she is close before I drive the five blocks. I do not want to be there alone.

 You invite us into the library. The corners of your eyes give you away. Liseanne and I sit down across from you. We are squished in so close to each other I can hear her swallow when your words break the silence.

“I have cancer.” You say with your trademark matter-of-factness.

Cancer. The word hangs in the air for a moment in bold black letters.

The font disintegrates as the definition sinks in. I do not know what to say.

Liseanne begins to ask questions. I ask if there is anything I can do. We curl up next to you on the sofa.

You can’t possibly have cancer. You don’t seem sick at all.

“I should make a T-shirt.” You joke, “Eat Right, stay active, and die anyway.”

We are all horrified.

“You are going to be fine.” I say cheerily.

“We’ll see.”

“No. You are going to be fine.”

What I do not say is you are not allowed to die. You are not allowed to die before we reach the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro, before you walk me down the aisle, before I finally make you proud, before all the water is under the bridge.

 You are not allowed to die before you know how much I miss you. How much I need you. How sorry I am. How I forgive you. Before you know how much I love you.

I know you are scared. So too, am I. I am not afraid though that you will die. Your body will heal, you will survive.

I am afraid that you will live and I will never find the the way to cure what’s been broken for too long.