When Pink Didn't Matter

                     When Pink Didn’t Matter

               At 6:40 a.m., I told myself not to wallow before I woke the kids up for school. The heaviness of today paused as I drank in their sweet, sleeping faces.

               "Good morning. Time to get up." I opened the blinds. The sun was out, which is odd for a February day. I have a crucial appointment today to find out if the cancer is still around after I had colon surgery for Stage 2 cancer. 

               In the shower, I’m caught up in my thoughts about mom and her cancer that I couldn’t remember if I washed my hair, so I wash, just in case. Today is Pink Shirt Day in the province. Schools will be decked out in pink. After discussing last night with the girls, we will leave it up to them if they want to wear pink today. It is a nonsense day. We live anti-bullying every day of the year. Bullies go back to work the next day.

               Their room was empty. I head downstairs to the kitchen and see the girls and Michael eating, not wearing pink. I hug Michael. "Did you get any sleep?" He asked. I shook my head. He kissed the top of my head.

               I nibbled on a piece of toast to eat something. After I drop off the kids at school, I’m going to the doctor for the results of the recent bloodwork test. My white cell (good kind) count wasn’t improving, and the doctor wasn’t sure if radiation or chemotherapy would be administered at the last appointment.

               All my life, I have been in a dress rehearsal for when I get cancer. It was just a matter of the date. Mom died of breast cancer, and my sister fought it twice at this point. I worry I will leave my girls too early, as mom did. 

               "Did you want to bring something pink, just in case?" I asked them both. The oldest rolled her eyes, and the youngest shook her head. Perfect. We appreciate the sentiment, but we will pass again. "Let’s go."

               Water bottles are filled, backpacks are zipped, and jackets are zipped. The normality of it all helps distract me for a moment. When Michael left for work, I promised to call him after talking with the doctor. 

               We load up the trunk with backpacks and buckle up. I start the car. The radio is full of commercials, so I shuffle up a morning playlist. Lady Gaga comes through the speakers. This makes me smile when I recall taking the oldest to her first rock concert, Lady Gaga. We share a smile. That was a good night.

               We arrived at the oldest’s school. "Bye. Have a great day. Love you." We exchanged hugs. I watched her walk into the building before driving the youngest. I shuffled the playlist to The Wiggles, her favourite. Eight minutes later, we pulled up to her school to meet her SEA. I pulled out her backpack and hugged her tightly before watching her walk with her arms looped with Lea. 

               My heart raced. I needed to find a tune to calm myself. A part of me just wanted to go home and not know what was happening in my body. "Come on, Danielle. It's better to know what to do next." 

               I select Rachel Patten, turn it up, and hit the highway to the doctor's building and my fate. It was the song I played on the drive to the hospital on surgery day. I pull up to a red light. I see the blue car driver on my right looking my way in my peripherals. Something energizes me about singing alone in the car. I embarrass the kids all the time. The light turns green, and I put my foot on the gas.

               Before entering the medical building, I inhale one slow breath, feel the sun on my face and exhale. I have never felt more connected to Mom than I do today. She had many medical appointments to fight cancer. Cancer is something I didn’t want to inherit, but here I am.

               "Come on in." Karen, the receptionist, ushers me into one of the private rooms. I put my purse on the other chair as she closed the door. I see the wooden fish mobile above the examination table. I remember talking to them as a kid. The girls and I do that to pass the time. “Can you help me now?” I whisper to the wooden fish.

               I look at my phone, and there are no notifications. I am on time; I hope the doctor is too. I wish I had asked Michael to come. He offered. I scroll through my emails, trying to kill time. I can't focus. I hear noises out in the hallway. My breath stops every time the noises stop. Time is going too slow now that I am here. I need to get this over with. I need answers.

               I hear footsteps outside the hallway again. I see shadows under the door. I see the doorknob turn. The door opens, revealing my doctor holding a file folder. She closes the door, sits down, and opens her laptop.

               "Let’s see what we got here." She mumbles a few numbers. "Your white cell count has come up at last. Tumor markers have dropped down." Her words don't click. I don't know if that is good or bad.

               "And?" I ask. I didn’t rehearse this scene.

               "This is what we are hoping for! Nothing to book or order today. " 

               "So, nothing for treatment? No radiation?" My confused brain can't accept what she says. 

               "No chemo and no radiation. Just check-ups, probably for the rest of your life. Well done. Keep up your Celiac diet. Have a good day." 

               "Thank you. Thank you." I float to the elevator, gooseflesh running up and down my body, and my adrenaline is high. When I walk to my car, the bright yellow sun feels like beach weather—my eyes and nose run. I am laughing and crying at the same time. I need to say the words out loud. I need to call Michael. 

               My fingers settle long enough so I can call him.

               "Hi." His voice is quiet.

               "I AM GOING TO BE OKAY!!" My tears and laughing pick up speed. His whoop is loud and glorious. I mumble other things because I forget how to talk for a moment.

               "Where are you? We need to celebrate." I’m in. He is at an important client's house and wants to interrupt it for me. We agree to meet at Browns Social House. I hang up because I need all my focus to drive. I start the car. Neil Diamond's ‘Cherry, Cherry’ fills the car. Because of Mom, I grew up listening to Neil. I sing along, tears slowing down a bit. I blow my nose. I can't wait to hug Michael and the girls! 

               "Thanks, Mom." I feel she is watching over me through Neil. It dawns on me that by having a crappy family history has paid off. I got seen earlier than usual. With today's news, my story is rewriting itself. With the window down, I drive under the big blue February sky.

               I am still buzzing when I pull into a parking spot at the restaurant. I text Michael that I arrived. I grab my purse, check my face, and get out. I am about to open the door to the restaurant when Michael comes around the other side. We hug the best hug. 

               We loop arms, walk in together, and are seated in a booth. Everything looks brighter. The operation manager, a former client, comes over to say hi. He asked what the occasion was for this lunch. I blurt out that it is a celebratory lunch because I am cancer-free. "Congratulations. I had no idea. Enjoy." We did not tell many people what I was going through. I can’t explain why I didn't feel like telling anyone outside my family and close friends. 

               We place our order. Minutes later, drinks arrive. We clink glasses and take a sip. It might be the wine, but I still feel floating. Everything looks much sharper. The food arrives. It is the best meal ever. We finish up and wait for the bill. Michael is taking the rest of the day off. I can't wait to see the girls.

               "Excuse me. We are just waiting for the bill." Michael asks our server. "One minute." Our former client comes over. "Lunch is on us," Chris says. "Surviving cancer is a big deal." I tear up again. We thank him and head home until it is time to pick up the kids. I will get the oldest, and Michael will pick up the youngest from her bus stop. There was a party going on that night.

               I start the car, and Tom Petty warbles. I can't stop smiling. I sing along. When that song ends, one of my favourite tunes from The Greatest Showman soundtrack is next, ‘This is Me.’ This song is my new anthem.

               I pull into our garage. Michael beats me home. He spends time in his office. I turn on the TV and update my sister with the great news. When it is time for pick-ups, I say bye to Michael. "You have not stopped smiling, " he says. Dang straight. I texted the youngest’s teacher to let her SEA know her dad will pick her up today. I left a bit early to pick up Starbucks to surprise the oldest. The day calls for lemonades.

               When I pull into the drive-thru, the radio is playing Depeche Mode. Not wearing a jacket in February weather was a treat. I then pull onto the street toward her school. What a perfect day.