It took me a while to realize that roller coasters weren’t fun anymore. All that high-speed jerking around, slamming first one way, and then the other, and having the bejeezus scared out of you. Why was that ever fun?
Real life roller coasters are even less fun. I started the day happy. Finally, after a month, Bob would be getting home! But at the airport, waiting in the cell phone lot, my phone rang.
It was Dr. Ormsby, my oncologist. The second genetic test, the one that would put me in the low risk group for sure, had come back. I was not low risk. I was in the high-risk group—the group that has a 30% chance of distant recurrence—or more. According to this test, I didn’t have a 1% benefit of doing chemo, I had a 10% benefit or more. Bad enough that I would have to do chemo after pre-maturely celebrating that I wouldn’t, but the “high risk,” label was worse. I was at high risk for recurrence. Recurrence is what kills.
Bob texted his arrival and I was so agitated I drove through the drop-off part of the terminal instead of pick-up. I could see Bob across the median, tapping into his cell phone, probably to me. I had to drive the whole circuit again, a long detour, to get to the right place. Of course, Bob had a big smile and wide-open arms when he saw me, but that dissolved when I started blubbering all over him. I think this was the first time I cried about the cancer.