April 18, 2024

A few days after my appointment with the doctor, Bean had his. Mine went better than Bean’s. (He’s fine now.)

On April 18, I went to my regularly scheduled doctor’s appointment and got some unexpected news.

“We consider you cured,” said the physician’s assistant. “It’s been two years.”

I scratched my head, something I do when I’m confused. “Cured?” I asked.

“Of cancer,” she replied. “Of course, we’ll continue to monitor you, but we think….”

The rest of what she said got smaller, like turning down the dimmer on your living room lights. I checked out at the front desk, walked to the parking lot and sat in my truck for a few minutes.

In February 2018, my father died of the same cancer I had – an aggressive form of prostate cancer that appeared suddenly. That was the beginning. The next six years became a blur of grief. My stepfather died by suicide in a public place (it made the news). My mom died of a heart attack. One of my sisters took her own life (and it weirdly was seized upon by the rig…