Day 68

When I was in high school, my best friend Donna and I used to cruise Columbia Park. There was a strip that ran the length of the large park and kids would drive from one end to the other checking each other out. We would occasionally pull into an alcove of trees to smoke a joint and offer ourselves like bait to the guys who passed by.

John was one of those guys. He pulled up next to my white Chevy Nova and offered to get us high. We smoked his weed and laughed at his jokes. He was hooked: he practically begged us to meet up with him the next day. He would bring his friend Steve and we could all hang out.

Donna and Steve did more than hook up, they developed a serious relationship which got in the way of our cruising and put me in close proximity to John on a regular basis. John had a crush on me that he expressed by giving me replacement parts for my car which he ordered from the dealership. The fact that John was a drug dealer precluded me from having any kind of relationship with him, but I was flattered by his attention.

John and I were sitting alone on the sofa in the living room at Steve's apartment one night, trying to ignore the grunts and moans leaking through the crack beneath the bedroom door. I was rambling about something: sexism, my pain-in-the-ass history teacher, lip gloss, whatever it is that teenage girls find interesting. John looked at me through bloodshot eyes and said: "You know Debbie, ideas just don't seem real to you until you say them out loud."

I thought it was the most profound observation anyone had ever made about me. At that age, my mind was like a high speed pitching machines: shooting off ideas, rapid fire and haphazard, most failing to reach a target. I longed to be heard. It took me another 15 years to find someone who really listened with his whole heart. What an amazing gift. It is a gift I am still trying to learn to reciprocate

Yesterday afternoon, Bill and I were in the living room when the phone rang. Even with the phone pressed to Bill's ear, I could hear the deep, excited voice of Dr. Gordon, the radiologist who did the biopsy last week. Even then, as we waited, barely able to breath, there were formalities to dispense with. Then he said: "Well, it's not great news." My heart sank.

As the light from the setting sun dimmed our living room, Bill and I cried and talked. We shared our darkest fears and our deepest hopes. We opened ourselves up and invited each other in. Once again, I was reminded of the sacred place we have created for each other, with each other. It is a place where cancer cannot go.