The Hodgkin's High-Five

Seven months ago, two scared kids walked into a doctor's office and their lives were turned upside-down.
Tonight, those same two kids will walk back into that same doctor's office hoping that their lives will be set back upright.
After 24 weeks of ABVD chemotherapy regimens, countless anti-neutropenia shots, dose after dose of nausea preventative, alopecia, neuropathy, and a perplexing (and ongoing) bout with something called chemobrain, we have an appointment with the oncologist who will tell us if my wife has a clean bill of health after her battle against lymphoma. We're pretty confident that the results will show a negative scan. Her doctor likewise expects a clean bill of health.
But that doesn't keep me from being scared to death right now.
I promised you way back when that this website wouldn't regress to a weepy cancer blog, so please forgive me if I've gone back on my word a time or two. And I suppose I'm going to break that promise once again today.
The summer before we got married, my wife bought a new townhome with the idea that I'd move in after our pending nuptials. As is the case with all new houses, there was some preliminary work to be done. One of the first items on my honey-do list was to install window treatments throughout.
Now, growing up, my father did his best to teach me how to be a man and be handy around the house. It was just that I was extraordinarily lazy and didn't pay attention to his wise instruction. So here I was, just a few months away from being one-half of a homeowning partnership, fumbling around with a six-volt hand drill and bits of Venetian blind, putting holes in the drywall and threatening to shatter the window pane. I wanted to give up and just walk away.
That moment was the only time I've ever doubted marrying my wife. I completely panicked and broke down. How was I supposed to be a good husband if I can't even accomplish a simple task like hanging blinds?
But I persevered. I sweated and grunted and cursed and fought those blinds, but I finished the task. And those blinds ended up a little crooked and not all of them opened right, but I had proven that, in a pinch, I could take care of my wife. It may have been a bit clumsy, but the job got done.
My wife called me on a sunny Tuesday afternoon in March. It was cancer, she said. But Hodgkin's lymphoma. That's the good kind, if there is such a thing. Curable. Probably.
So we took it in stride. It was her job to get well. It was my job to help her. My honey-do list now consisted of being strong and supportive, giving her nightly Neupogen shots and staying positive for her. This meant keeping a smile on my face even if I really didn't feel like smiling. When she wasn't looking, I completely panicked and broke down. How was I supposed to be a good husband if I couldn't keep myself together? Giving up and walking away would have been so much easier.
But, once again, perseverance paid off. I fought and cursed and cried and lost my temper. But never around her. I think in the long run, however, I proved to her that, in a pinch, I could still take care of her. It may have been a bit clumsy, but the job got done.
We have this thing, my wife and I. Whenever we feel like crying or denouncing our rotten luck or feeling sorry for ourselves, we give each other a high-five. We call it the Hodgkin's High-Five. I know it sounds stupid, but it's a symbolic manifestation of the optimism that we know we must have in order to survive this. I even taught it to our dog. How can you get all weepy if you're slappin' five? You can't my friend, you can't.
So tonight, when we walk into that doctor's office, she'll sit us down and disclose those results that we've been waiting all year to hear. The tears will be of joy, I think.
I hope.
I pray.
And maybe, just maybe, as we're walking out to the parking lot, it'll all be over. We'll exchange glances, share a knowing wink, and give each other a regular high-five.
This time without the Hodgkin's.