Chapter 9 - THE CANCER WAS NOT THE END
My cancer treatment continued through all of it.
That was the part people forgot when they heard about Daniel.
As if escaping abuse cured cancer.
It did not.
I still had follow-up procedures.
Scans.
Bloodwork.
Months when the hospital smell made me nauseated before anyone touched me.
At my first major post-treatment scan, Megan sat beside me.
Not Daniel.
She brought terrible vending-machine coffee.
“You know,” she said, “this is disgusting.”
“You bought it.”
“I was optimistic.”
The scan showed no evidence of active disease.
I cried in the parking lot.
Megan cried too.
Then immediately said:
“I hate that phrase.”
“What phrase?”
“No evidence of disease. Sounds like cancer hired a lawyer.”
I laughed until my abdomen hurt.
Good hurt.
Normal hurt.
Later, my oncologist asked:
“How are things at home?”
The question stopped me.
Home.
I had rented a small townhouse.
Two bedrooms.
One became an office.
The kitchen was ugly.
The carpet was beige.
I loved every inch.
May you like
“Safe,” I said.
That word was better than beautiful.
