Friday was the sixth anniversary of the lovely husband's lung tumor removal. It was the scariest thing that had ever happened to us and now it's a distant story. Amazing, that.
Last year marked five years of clean scans at the oncologist's office, so the lovely husband graduated from his care. This year there was nothing, and that's the most special something a nothing can be.
I still get jumpy whenever he gets a persistent cough. He made me shiver last week when I said how heavy G is, and imagine if that treatment had gone differently and the lovely husband wouldn't have been allowed to lift him? "We probably wouldn't have had him," the lovely husband said. "Nor L. E would have probably been our only child." The alternate fate smeared muddy across my mind, like the scene out a car window on a miserable, precipitous day.
image via Marionzetta
His body healed. What remained of his lungs grew strong enough to serve him fully. And we had all the kids we wanted, the ones we numbered in our heads before he grew sick. And now we are here, marking the end of a year for the first time in a long time with no oncology notation in the calendar.
It's been so long since it happened that we have friends now who know nothing of this story. It's just a story. (Well, it's a story, a 20" scar, and an inches-thick stack of CT films atop the basement filing cabinet).
As we round in to the Thanksgiving holiday, here's my great measure of gratitude.
To health: mine and yours and all our loved ones'.