I have had a few memorable summers in my lifetime. The summer after high school, the summer after college. Those were times when I had just crossed a milestone and was eager for my new life to start, but not without a little kick-back and hay-making. I catch a whiff of that on the evening breeze.
I realize, at this moment, that I hold the gift of one of those transformational summers. I made it through the hardships and sacrifices of these past two years of cancer treatment and now I get to make some hay. I feel the sun on my skin and soak in the heat. I see the golden light at twilight and revel in that magic hour. I smell my sun-warmed skin and take a moment to chat with the warbling birds.
It's time to get away. When I graduated from college I had a plan to travel the country in my car. I changed my plans when a job offer came my way. I need to take that trip now. I have another chance and it's time. I have cleared my schedule and obligations. The dog and cat have died. It's time.
I'm free! I'm in remission and free from chemo and recovered from surgery and free to go!
Wait. I'm not. I still need monthly magnesium infusions (I call them refills as in "fill 'er up") because of secondary malnutrition as a consequence of a shortened bowel as a consequence of chemotherapy as a consequence of cancer. F%^*. I am still waiting on cancer. That rat bastard has a long reach and I still have not escaped. But I am least farther away from cancer than I was 2 years ago.
Today, as I pace the floor, waiting for the phone call to tell me the insurance company approved my infusion so I can call the infusion center and schedule a time slot for maybe the next day if I am lucky but probably not, I force myself to release my expectation of leaving town. I cry. I force myself to one of my self-imposed occupational therapies, something to do to occupy my mind. I cook.
I have nothing on hand (because I'm leaving town, right?) but I slow down and look deeper. I bury myself in the process, marveling at how easy it is to cook in my new thrifted cookware. I taste and improvise seasonings. I serve myself on my new thrifted dishes. I am pleased.
I eat on the back porch in the summer evening twilight and sniff the breeze. Smell that? Yeah, me too.
