Now Cancer, You Go Out.

When I was a little kid, I hit that phase kids hit where you decide you need privacy when going to the bathroom. I’d look at my mom very seriously and say, “Now, Mom, you go out.”

Today is Tim’s first day of radiation. I’m keeping myself busy writing this from the waiting room because I owe everyone updates, and reading a stale copy of The Medical Times isn’t extremely appealing at the moment.

Getting to this day has taken longer than I would have liked because in my head, all I want to say to cancer is “Now cancer, you go OUT.” Out of my husband’s body. Zap that crap away. Out as fast as you can go. OUT.

Since Tim’s surgery in July, many of you dear people have sent texts and emails asking how Tim is doing, and I’ve done my best to reply but I know I haven’t gotten to them all. Aside from walking around knowing he has cancer, Tim’s really fine. Don’t get me wrong, when the surgery happened and we heard that the cancer had been contained, we really thought that was that. Damned cancer, that wasn’t that.

Before Tim joined the Cancer Club, I’d always heard about people saying that there are two statuses- before and after cancer. There are good days and bad days. And it’s true. Everything is different, but different is our new normal. We still have crazy passionate fights, but at some point, we figure out that the fight isn’t really important when Tim has this battle to fight, so I guess it puts things into perspective. I think that I assumed once Tim was diagnosed, we’d never fight again. Yeah, right!

When I get freaked out or worried about things, I keep leaning on a lovely thing that my friend Amy said: “Tim has enough karma points to last a lifetime. Now’s his chance to cash them in.”  Since Tim’s diagnosis, I’ve watched him rack up even more karma points. He’s like that kid you see at Dave & Busters who you’re pretty sure found the broken skee ball machine that spits out 20 times more tickets you’re supposed to get. I know this because once at a company team builder I found that broken skee ball machine and ended up winning an iPod because of it. Perhaps I’m feeling guilty about that ten years later. Perhaps Tim can let me borrow some karma points so I don’t feel so bad about that.

A few weeks ago, I looked out the front window and Tim was speaking with a man on a bicycle. The man has been homeless for over 40 years, and he came by to tell Tim he got an apartment. Tim’s a Hector the Collector, so in no time, he loaded up a chair, a table and who knows what else and drove the man to his apartment. The man thanked Tim and said, “Now when my caseworker comes over tomorrow, she’ll have a place to sit.”

The broken skee ball machine spit out about 10,000 more karma tickets for Tim to hang onto for a rainy day. So today, he’ll cash some tickets in, and he’ll get a special deal because as I sit in the waiting room I can already hear him laughing that gigantic laugh, making the techs laugh just as hard (but not as loud).

So that’s how I’m deciding to look at this. For every good deed Tim has put into the universe, he’s cashing in those tickets for the next 6 weeks as this weird fancy radiation machine zaps his cancer away.

Now cancer, you go OUT!



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