No amount of bright paint or floral wall décor can make the place feel less frightening to me. None of the cheery smiling faces can really take the edge off of simply being there.
Sure, there are amazingly beautifully brave people all around—inspiring—as the staff who love working at the Cross Cancer Institute is quick to say. Still. All I could think about was those whose news today—or yesterday, or last week or last month—wasn’t good.
Cancer is a thief.
But you go through the motions, almost robotically, answering the faces behind the desks “how are you” with “fine”, even though you’re not. (I did append my “fine” once today with “that’s a lie,” which registered just a hint of a smile on the face of the clerk.)
But I am fine, now, and very, very thankful.
And I’ve forgiven myself for being short with my husband this morning, telling him that no, I’m not interested in what Chris Hedges is saying, not today, and yes, I know we’re normally on the same page, but I can’t think about political and corporate corruption, not today.
The tears came when I got home, within the safety of his hug. Then the joy: I can tell my family the good news. And the kids are coming for dinner.