I have struggled with how to start this.
The lab results they handed to me. The sinking feeling. When I thought my knees might buckle.
I could start with the scene in the kitchen – the part where Christie looked at me, weeping, saying that this was not the way it was supposed to be. He was supposed to bounce grandbabies on his knee. They were supposed to grow old together.
I could tell you about telling the children. I could tell you about when 9 year old Ben asked if his dad was going to die. We said that he would, but that we would make so many memories first.
I could tell you about the moment when I went and got the expensive bottle of scotch from my car. Poured Andy and I a hefty slug. Because I did not know how to do this. And then I dried my tears and went and did it.
It’s a glioblastoma. He has a year, maybe as much as 2. They’ll do radiation, then chemo for as long as it works or he can stand it. It’s fast, somewhat rare and aggressive. There will be no grandbabies on his knee. There will be no old couple on a front porch. There will be no dad at high school graduation. At weddings. There will be no 46th birthday.
I told her I would come at the end. When it gets bad, I will be there. I drove home from Montana as quickly as I could, with tears in my eyes. Not because I needed to be home, but because I need to know how long it takes to get back there.
11 hours. 55 minutes. Gas. Bathroom. More bad gas station coffee. 140 km an hour, with tears in my eyes.