The “C word” hit home for Janie and her husband in a very unexpected way.
So, what do you do when your doctor tells you that your MRI looks great? No change in the cancer, which is still there, but growing slower than you. And that’s pretty darn slow because once you reach sixty, not much grows on your body anymore. Except for maybe your ears.
a) take a nice long drive along the coast and have a meal looking out at the ocean;
b) take a nice long drive along the city streets and have a meal and people watch;
c) buy new silverware, and have a meal at home.
Well, if you’re my husband, no amount of begging and pleading can change your mind. You want C and that’s all there is to it.
What I’d like to know is where was this husband when we got married, oh so many years ago? Why did he not care about a wedding registry?
Back then he didn’t know a salad fork from one used to eat tiramisu. Our mismatched dishes were just fine with him. He just didn’t care what we ate off of. As long as we were eating.
But things change.
These days, he does all the cooking and a majority of the cleaning.
And for the past few months he’s been complaining that our salad forks don’t stab the tomatoes with enough “umph.” Our knives aren’t thick enough to hold. The soup spoons don’t scoop properly.
Every time he empties the dishwasher (yes, he does that now, too) he grumbles.
But I think it goes deeper. Much deeper. Involving another C word: Control.
He has no Control over those malignant cells growing inside his brain. Although, he seems to do quite nicely when it comes to yelling at me for my brain’s shortcomings.
When I can’t find my keys for the third time in two days, he goes ballistic. When I leave the dryer open because my cellphone rings as I scoop up an armful of warm clothes, he carries on for hours. And don’t get me started on his behavior when I forget to replace the empty toilet paper roll.
But these are Small things, which when added up don’t amount to anything too big to worry about.
And I know he worries about people staring at him when he is in public. To me, he’s just a bald middle-aged guy. Not many people can see his scar and unless he brings it up, no one knows that the top of his head is soft like a baby’s.
So, yeah, I’m up for a day at the beach. And I love to people watch. But I get more enjoyment out of watching my husband eat.
Because I know what he’s doing. With each jab into a tomato. Each cut of steak. Every puncture into whatever is piled on his plate, he’s shouting:
Fuck you. Fuck you Cancer.