A Day of Results

It’s an infection.

Those words should bring relief. 

There’s an anomaly in the culture.

The blood drains from my face.

I am not afraid of cancer.  It doesn’t run in my family.  I don’t smoke.  I eat better than most Americans and exercise regularly.  The standard indicators and markers don’t loom over me, threatening to initiate an attack at any moment.

You’re going to be okay.

That’s what they told my mother. 

I watched as an infection slowly destroyed her.  It would only reveal itself after extensive damage had been done.  They would clear it from her system, tell her she’d be fine, and then it would appear again in another part of her body, decimating yet another organ. It was an unrelenting enemy, hiding in the cellular trenches, camouflaged by the medications meant to destroy it.  The infection was a black ops batallion, landing, destroying, conquering. 

My mother is dead.  Infections scare me.

I feel numb, and alone.  There’s only a few people I would talk to about this.  I can’t reach out to them.

The Hospitality House calls. There’s a guest who needs to check-in.  It’s work.  A distraction.

He’s from Chicago.  He has salt and pepper hair, kind eyes…and cancer.  As I show him around the house, we talk of history, architecture and design elements.  He stands aside and watches as three other guests excitedly surround me.  They tell me they want to cook me dinner, or rather dinner for the house.  They want to prove they can cook too.  Mostly, they just want to thank me for making them laugh so much the night before. I know they just want to feel normal again.  When you’re facing sickness and loss, being viewed as more than the the tragedy becomes the greatest gift you can receive.

Tonight we’re having soul food.

He explains he has an appointment at 3 pm followed by a seminar his doctor is conducting.  He won’t be back for dinner.  I wish him luck.  He’ll be at the Hospitality House for several weeks.  I tell him to consider it his home away from home.

We have several people check-in.  The house will be close to capacity tonight.  It’s good. I’m busy.

A friend pays a surprise visit. We laugh and joke. I don’t want to break the mood. I don’t want to step outside of this strange and fragile bubble. I don’t want to think about it.

As dinner is called, one of the chefs pull me aside.

“You didn’t tell me we’d be cooking for white people.”

“What?”

“White people won’t like our soul food.”

I couldn’t stop the grin.  “Am I not white?”

He looked puzzled and then laughed. 

“No,” he said.  “You’re family.”

As we all gathered around the table, eating barbeque, corn bread, chili, sweet potato souffle & peas, it felt like a family reunion.

Laughter is healing.

I am going over the books with my co-worker.  My shift is ending; I’ll be off for a few days.

He steps through the door and introduces himself to my partner.  He carries himself with the dignity of a king and the gentleness of a nurturing spirit.

He hands me a rose.

I haven’t had a man give me flowers since I was in France trying to break the bonds of confused American modesty to embrace French freedom.  A topless me deserved a bouquet.  I’m not sure why I deserve this beautiful flower tonight. 

“For me?”

“Yes,” he smiled and added.  “There’s more to come.”

Men facing death are not too intimidated to show their interest.  It’s a double-edged sword. 

We talked about his appointment and his treatment plan.

I told him about my test results…and my mother.

“It’s just an infection,” I finally said.

He takes my hand.

“Yeah,” he murmurs and looks into the distance.  “It’s just cancer.”

I understand.