Fever Dream

The coffee machine in the local hospital's waiting room has this really great ersatz cappuccino maker that makes the best cup of French Vanilla you could ask for. It's all sugar and foam, but for free coffee, you can't beat it. I drank four cups yesterday and took another for the road.
I hope to never taste it again.
You see, I've been hesitating writing a follow-up to last week's post because we weren't really out of the woods yet. My wife was cured of cancer, but there was one more hurdle to jump. And strangely, I had yet to have that moment of catharsis that would bring closure to this chapter in our lives. I craved it badly.
Before chemotherapy begins, a surgeon has to insert a small portacath under the skin to administer the medicine. The jugular is tapped by the small catheter attached to the port and becomes a spur of the circulatory system. The treatments are literally poison, and they can wreck your veins and tear up tissue, so a direct route to the bloodstream is needed. The port provides venous access safely.
And what comes in, must come out.
I can pinpoint the exact moment when this whole cancer thing sunk in. I hadn't really processed the significance of her illness until that day last March when they put the port in her chest. My mom came for support and I'm glad she did. When they wheeled the gurney out of the prep room back to surgery, it felt as if I was falling to the floor and the whole world rushed up to meet me. I knew it was the beginning of a long, arduous, uphill climb that was paved with uncertainty and angst.
There, among the empty Styrofoam cappuccino cups and year-old Field & Streams, I lost it. With my tears staining the knees of my mother's jeans, sobs racking my body, I was awash with fear and emotion, not having any idea of what the future held.
So yesterday, we found ourselves in that same exact room, once again watching her being wheeled into surgery. The removal of the port, however, is a super simple procedure. In fact, the entire surgery ended up lasting a whopping 8 minutes. It's a strange thing though, to see someone you love in a hospital bed, hooked up to IVs and monitors. They give you a general because it is somewhat invasive, but the sedation is mild. When they ushered her back into the room, she was asleep, but woke quickly when the team of hovering nurses and doctors buzzed around the room hooking her back up to the various machines.
Pale and sallow, her nearly-bald head wrapped in a baby blue bandana and her neck and shoulders coated in orange surgical antiseptic, she groggily opened her eyes. Through the foggy haze of anesthesia she lifted a weak hand to her chest and gingerly patted the spot where the port used to be. She looked at me with a heavily medicated smile and simply said, "It's all gone."
With those three words, she provided me with the catharsis I'd been waiting a week to experience. I know she was likely referring to the port being gone, but I took it much differently. Not only was the round disc under her skin gone, but so was the anxiety, the apprehension, the worry, the occasional melancholy and most importantly, the cancer. All gone.
I lost it.
Ignoring the tubes, peripheral drip lines and wires, I leaned over the bedrails and give her a great big healthy hug. We kissed and embraced through the tears. The pure joy I felt at that moment was unlike any relief I've ever experienced. And just like that, it was over.I would say that life will return to normal. But what’s normal? If it’s apathy and ambivalence, then I want no part of normal.
Not every story has a happy ending. I can’t imagine the pain and grief associated with the bad ones. But this one does. Not just because the cancer’s all gone, but because of the lessons learned out of the experience: Faith works. Hope works. Prayer works. Kindness works.
I’ve received countless reassuring words and smiles. Pats on the back. Hugs. Notes. Phone calls. Casseroles. Emails. Texts. Some of them from you, dear readers. I do not and will not ever take them for granted. Thank you.
I’m a lucky man to have friends like these.
And moreover, a wife who’s a fighter. An inspiration. A pillar of strength.
A survivor.