That C-Word

“Hi hon--” you start.

“Hi,” I cut you off. I want to sound happy, assuring you that all is okay, but I don’t know that it is and my words catch in my throat.

You look sad and I can think of nothing to do but wrap my arms around you.

“I’m…” you start crying. “I’m going to my doctor on Monday. I want to know how my…”

But you can’t finish your thought. I know that thought. I know that word that you cannot say. You call it ‘that C-word’ as though stating your actual condition will grow your tumor.

“I’ll call work tomorrow,” I say. “I’ll go with you.”

You nod and burrow into my arms, sobbing.

On Monday morning, your clinic is surprisingly vacant. You sign in with a shaking hand.

“Want to sit?” I point to a row of chairs.

“Okay.”

You pick a chair, sit, and I squat in front of you.

“You can do this.”

“You don’t know that. If I can’t fight this…if I…you know…will you miss--”

“Stop.” I say firmly, taking your hand. “You can do this.”

“Lillian Gloss?” A woman calls and looks about for you, as though this waiting room has thirty individuals and not just two.

“Coming,” you say, stoically standing and walking. I swallow hard. I will not cry.

“I’m coming too,” I call, walking swiftly to catch up.

I don’t know what your doctor says. Any words that follow “tumor shrinking” turn into a blur that swirl about in my brain.

I simply can’t stop smiling.

Walking out, I grab your hand and look down at you. You grin your first tiny grin in months. “I’m still fighting this,” you admit.

“I know. But right now? I’m just…thankful.”

You nod and your small grin starts to grow.