A Saturday morning lesson in mortality…
“Okay, let’s pretend.”
This is how every Saturday morning starts. My daughter, the second her eyes open, without a care for anyone sleeping or what time it might be, right when the rosy fingertips of dawn appear, she is ready to play. Quick with a scenario, a character, already back-arched in her perfect kitten pose, we start being.
Being something fun and full of life. Animated.
But it was just a few weeks ago that I wasn’t feeling so full of life. The word biopsy might do that to anyone, especially when you are still just waiting for the procedure to be scheduled, not to mention the grueling days waiting for the results.
I remember the radiologist coming in after the ultrasound and saying ‘biopsy.’ Staring at the lights above me in the dimly lit exam room, with tears in my eyes and a heavy weight in my chest, I thought about my dad looking at those same kind of lights the day the doctor came in to tell him it was prostate cancer. And it was metastatic. I finally had a tiny taste of what he must have felt.
And a sense
