Before I share last week’s column, I want to say I wrote this a week ago after a great vacation in Florida with the looming plan that I was leaving for Mayo Clinic immediately after we returned for six weeks of proton radiation treatment and once a week chemo to treat a reoccurring cancer in two places that has grown outside my esophagus. And so we prepared the girls and ourselves mentally, had all the arrangements made for their care while Chad drove me and got me settled in, packed all the things I thought I would need for that length of stay in a house that has been a blessing offered up to us from a very thoughtful and generous couple, and we hit the road. But as soon as we got to the highway, not even ten miles out, I got the call that our insurance did not want to cover the cost of my proton radiation, and after an appeal, that decision stood firm. And with that, they said they were going to try for one more appeal, because my doctors believed firmly that proton radiation (which is a newer form of radiation treatment that can pinpoint the cancer that needs to be radiated within millimeters, creating less damage to surrounding organs, which reduces the risks of creating subsequent cancers down the road) was the best course of action for me given my history and age.

Insurance disagreed, reinforcing what I think we can all agree can be a pretty brutal system we have here. Cue the angry and frustrated and worried week that followed as I unloaded my things, went back to work and prayed they changed their minds.

Which I’m happy to report they did, thanks to the relentlessness of my advocates at Mayo Clinic. So here I am now, settled into the house with two long days of tests and treatments under my belt. Two rounds of radiation went well and my first round of chemo was very well tolerated with no negative reactions. I just dropped Chad off at the airport so he can get back home and he will bring the girls to spend Easter with me here, and so there is something to look forward to and I’m not letting myself feel lonesome yet. All of the calls, texts, gifts and well wishes have been so heartwarming and helpful and I thank you all from the bottom of my heart. And thanks mom and dad for letting me use your Jeep so I don’t have to drive the giant mom-mobile into these parking garages and also I look way cooler in it, which is important.

Ok, so now you’re all caught up, which I think was necessary given the space I was in when I wrote last week’s column. Love you, I’m gonna be alright.

The Swimming Part

Several years ago, my in-laws took the family to Florida to experience a Disney vacation. This was a time in our lives when Chad and I were not parents yet, but we took our roles as aunt and uncle to our young nieces and nephew very seriously. On this trip that meant that we moved ahead of the group, made plans and schedules for the next rides, secured fast passes and kept everyone as hyped as seven and nine-year-olds and their haggered parents could possibly be after the initial wow factor wears off and everyone’s hot, hungry and overwhelmed in a sea of people. Despite the unseasonably cold Florida weather and a theme-park sold out of sweatshirts and getting stuck in a tiny boat in the broke-down “It’s a Small World” ride for longer than any human being should have to listen to that song on repeat in German, and the look of terror in my nephew’s eyes while he screamed “Get me outta here!” on the jungle safari cruise when the fake hippo came launching out of the water looking too real –oh, and the one incident I’ll never live down where I used my five-year-old niece as a shield to Shamo’s wave in front of all of my in-laws and Jesus—the family trip lives in my memory as one of my favorites

You know what the kids remember all these years later now that they are teenagers and grown adults with jobs? Swimming in the backyard pool at the Airbnb in sixty-degree weather. Which is typical, and also a bit of a relief knowing that Shamo, the hippo and the animatronic dancing people didn’t scar anyone for life.

Last week I watched my daughters flip and splash and jump and chatter in a similar pool in Florida with their cousins. The sun had gone down, lighting the water up dramatic and perfect for the dolphin, whale, narwhal and squid show they were putting on for everyone after supper.My parents treated the entire family to a spring break trip to the beach in Florida and it was our last night of six days spent watching these kids swim in the warm pool, despite, again, the unseasonably cool temperatures that had us all shivering on the beach in double sweatshirts. A few days before we wandered around an aquarium and watched a dolphin show, and so they were recreating what they learned to much applause. That week we offered up arcade trips and go carts, beach walks, shopping and ice cream outings, but when the sun came up, before breakfast or the first pour of coffee, those kids were in the pool and that’s where they stayed. It’s all they wanted to do. They swam so much their skin turned raw and I had to slather them in Aquafor and coax them out for a sandwich and a drink of water before they turned around and cannonballed back in.

This trip had a sort of heaviness to it as we tried to forget that waiting for us on the other side was weeks of disruption to our lives as I relocate for cancer treatments in Rochester. Despite my best efforts to pretend that it wasn’t inevitable, that sort of thing sits lodged in your chest until it’s over. And it was on my daughters’ minds too as they would grab me in passing and say quietly “I don’t want you to leave.” I’d give them a squeeze and then they’d be off. Turns out a 90-degree pool is good medicine for lingering dread.

I type this at my kitchen table back in the real world. My packed bags are all splayed out open on the floor of my room after our first plan to leave was suddenly delayed by insurance issues we’re scrambling to resolve. Turns out even the best laid plans for the worst reasons aren’t set in stone and I’m left feeling like my nephew on that safari ride screaming “Get me outta here!”  Or my niece stunned and shivering after a big whale’s splash, unprotected. Treatment will happen soon, one way or another. Hopefully, in time, I’ll only remember the swimming part.  

I close my eyes and think of my ten-year-old daughter, the last to leave the pool on the last night of our vacation. She asked her dad if she could stay in a little longer to spin and dive and sing on her own while the younger girls got ready for bed and the adults packed up to go home. She wanted a little more time to play, a little more time before facing the thing coming that will be hard. A little more time before growing up.

“Watching her swim out there by herself, it makes me choke up,” my husband said that night as we got in bed. “She’s just so innocent, and it goes so fast.”

“Remember when all you wanted to do was swim?” I said, tears lodged in my throat.

I continued folding my sandy clothes.