On this night five years ago, I laid in my childhood bed wih the man who would be my husband. The house was cold; we spooned for warmth. In my ear, he whispered, "What if I have cancer?"
"I really don't think you have to worry about that," I said emphatically, turning to face him. He's only 27. It will really be okay. Biopsy just means looking and seeing what it is. Not necessarily cancer. Just looking at the lump in his throat as a precaution.
So imagine my shock, when four days later he got a somewhat roundabout diagnosis. "It looks like a lymphoma," the doctor said. But I digress.
I am thinking about this night, Christmas Eve, five years ago.
That night I lay there so sure what life did not have I store for us. I'd checked in with my intuition. No disturbance detected. Later I would question myself. Why hadn't I known? Then later when it was my turn, I did sort of know. But I digress.
I sit here in a darkened car, five years since that night. The end of the calendar year but already the beginning of the solar year. Reaching the end of the decade that I was supposed to be young and beautiful, though most of the time I did not feel that, and most of the time I should have. It wasn't until the last year or so that I began to be old.
I know now that nothing is impossible. That night five years ago, I thought things could be impossible. Then in July of 2012, I thought the same. I thought the statistics would protect me. It swings both ways, that. It's freeing and crushing.
Nothing is impossible.
Tonight's eve is cold with a bit of snow. I light a candle with an expensive and satisfying match, and my dog leans against me in bed. Tonight's eve, I have hair again, but still no breasts. I think of the next eve, the next ten, and remember what I have learned: nothing is impossible.