As my dad sat on the large blue hospital chair, he wrung his hands. He slowly moved one nervous finger up to his scar, tracing the surgeon’s mark from a brain tumor removal surgery that took place less than a year ago. The only thing interrupting the silence was the constant clicking the doctor made with his mouse as he reviewed my father’s MRI scans.
This had been the ritual for my dad over the past year. Every two weeks, he went in for a checkup, prepared for nothing but the worst.
“It’s just, every time I recover from the last chemo treatment, I have to go back to get more,” he complained to the doctor.
The doctor nodded and ended the clicking. He made eye contact with my father, mother and myself.
Great, I thought, here it comes, extra icing on the cancer cake. Every time a doctor had made sure all of us were paying attention, bad news seemed to follow. But this time, it was different.
“Well, Mr. Webber, there isn’t any visible growth of the tumors anywhere in your nervous system,” he said.
The heavy tension in the room was suddenly released as my mother let out a sigh. However, my father continued to wring his hands and kept a poker face. He had always been good at that.
The doctor noticed my dad’s guard and attempted to break down the wall.
“I don’t know how I could give you any better news,” he said.
My dad tried to listen to him as he described the next steps to maintain the cancer-free lifestyle. However, despite the doctor’s smiling and my mother’s relief, my father remained like a statue, unchanged by the good news.
I seemed to be the only one that continued to feel his uneasiness. The news of his remission didn’t affect either of us because we were waiting for the next issue that we would have to deal with as a family.
If the cancer had taught us anything, it was that everything has an expiration date, especially when it’s sugarcoated. The sweetest triumphs of cancer seemed to dissipate faster than any other aspect.
So as the doctor attempted to truly show the optimism that came with the news, my father and I kept our guard all the way up. How long would this good news last before something else came along?
However, when we were dismissed and exited the hospital with nothing else, negative or positive, I felt like I had concentrated so much on the negative anticipation that I had forgotten to enjoy the positive. I had missed out.
I took a deep breath of cancer-free air, reached for my dad’s hand, and didn’t let go until we entered our car.
I realized that the best thing to do when receiving news is to pretend it’s like a dessert, a treat. Yes, there will most likely be consequences from savoring it. They can range anywhere from gaining a few extra pounds to going back for more cell-murdering treatment, but ultimately it is important sometimes to just indulge.
Taste the minutes that you have together with those you love, healthy or not. Live life the way it’s given to you, and feel the sweetness that it has to offer. It makes the consequences worth it in the end, so that when your plate is empty from the tasty treat, you can say that you enjoyed everything it had to offer.
