Pivotal Moment

"Yes, I'll ride with you!"
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The day Jimmy found out his biopsy results and we saw the oncologist for the first time was a pivotal point.

We knew there was cancer in him but the extent of it's invasion was still unknown that morning.  We woke up and went to breakfast with our friends at the diner as usual.  Trying to keep as normal a routine as possible would prove to be the only way to survive day to day.

We held hands in the office waiting for Dr. A to enter the room.  Jimmy's hand was warm and felt strong in mine.
Dr. A. greeted us with his casual yet professional manner.  Always so impeccably dressed and kind.  Very genuine in his demeanor.  We were in that state of fear.  Kind of like when you were a kid and took a very hard test in school.  You were waiting for your grade thinking you may have passed but were unsure of yourself.
He reached inside a large envelope and put the PET scan films up on the light board.  Head to toe pictures of the inside of the body illuminated in dark gray and bright white.
Often you might wonder if they really know what they are looking at.  How can you tell one shadow or bright spot from another?  There were colored pictures printed out on the report form from the radiologist, too.
These looked like someone had melted bright colored crayons in yellow, red, green and blue all over the outline of a human shape.
Dr. A started explaining the scan and the report and pointing to various areas to show us.
Once done, he said
"Jimmy you have a very advanced cancer."

At that moment you are so numb that you feel paralyzed and deaf.
You have been given your test results and all the studying in the world would never have given you a passing grade.

"How long do I have?", I hear Jimmy ask.

Dr. A explains that some people with this cancer can survive.  The statistics say 30% survival at five years with chemo and radiation.

On a crisp, clear, blue day in January we learn that there is a 70% chance of a huge storm.

Dr. A. plans out his care strategy with us and wants things to be started right away.  He gives us till Monday to begin.

Nothing more has to be said.  We are stone silent as we walk back out through the lobby of people who have heard this before or will get similar news.  You make eye contact with a few and nod.  It is a slow treadmill of people with their caregivers coming and going. There is no need to rush.

Outside in the car it is a unwelcoming cold.   The radio plays a song heard a million other times and today I feel like the words
mean more.  The tune is sweeter.  I look down at my rings and turn the diamonds upright.  Out the window all the trees are bare.

In a few minutes we are on the highway.
"I want to stop at the Harley shop.  Want to go?"  He knows I'm no fan.
"Sure, honey", I say.
In my mind I tell myself that if Jimmy can get through this I will ride on the motorcycle to celebrate.  It's a goal to achieve.

Inside we wander around looking.  Everything is polished brightly and perfectly positioned one after the other.  Road toys.  Leather, tattooed men with beards and black with orange HD logo jackets.
I find myself talking to the salesman who sold him his bike.  Jimmy is in the restroom at the time.  I have met this man before and he is nice.
He asks me if I ride.  I tell him no, I really don't like motorcycles because of a childhood accident when I fell from a motor scooter and was severely hurt.
Then he asks about Jimmy.  He already knew about the cancer diagnosis since Jimmy had known this guy for a while.
When Jimmy joins us, we are talking casually and then he says, "So, Jimmy are you liking your bike?"
Jimmy just says he loves it but it probably won't be ridden much since he has to start his chemo on Monday.  The guy says
"Well you should get out there and ride today.  It's a beautiful bright, shiny day!"  I agree he should go for a ride when we get home.
What came next surprised even me.
Jimmy turned to me and said, "will you go?".
There was no other answer....
"Yes, I will ride with you!"

Cathy Windham
12/20/13