As I drive to the YMCA for my bi-weekly Livestrong class, I catch up to an early 2000s Acura. The silver car slugs along at ten under the speed limit, and it takes me thirty seconds to realize there’s no accident; this person just sucks at driving. I press the brake and resist my Jersey driving instinct to scoot closer to the bumper. My kids make me five minutes late if I leave on time by default. We went on time today, but this frazzling slow down is about to interrupt the five-minute bathroom break I pre-set aside for Jet and Lennox.
As I tap my big toe on the gas pedal, her reflection catches the driver-side mirror. Seemingly, without a care in the world, an elderly woman holds a grin while craning over the steering wheel. I relax my foot, and her blissful gaze makes the clock feel less intrusive.
Fine, I’ll do the nice thing. I’ll be a little slow and a little late. She looks too happy for me to be a successful asshole.
We plod along the county road when a giant black Dodge Ram 1500 darts up in my rear view. It doesn’t take five seconds for him to hang from my bumper by inches of legal consequence. I don’t think he will hit me, but it’s possible. Grit teeth seem to snarl beneath bent eyebrows, and his contorted rage appears to jump out of the windshield. I get it, dude; I have somewhere to be too.
My foot nudges the gas to gesture the speed limit to Grandma Acura, but I am ignored. My brake lights do nothing to deter the Dodge’s biting swerves. I am sandwiched between naïveté and hatred.
“No, mamma, go DIS WAY,” Jet proclaims while exhaling all the air in his little lungs on the last two words. He slams his hand on his window to point out an empty field by the road. There are two tractors out by the hay bales.
As I open my mouth to explain to him why I can’t aimlessly meander through someone’s field, a soft clatter of plastic falls to the floor.
“My gasses, Mamma! Helpa meeee!” Lennox squeals while grabbing the air in front of her. As I commit to a sharp turn, the pink flower-rimmed sunglasses slide along the seat. I am three cars’ length distance from the Acura and two inches from the truck. He turns with me, giving no further slack.
In their own chorus, the two of them plead through screams and cries.
“GASSES MOMMMAH”
“DAT WAY TO THE FIELD!!!”
This is life. These are the moments that patchwork my weeks. Adrenaline sloshing through in my hands, fingers fat and thick from gripping the steering wheel. Shallow breathing through pursed lips until I remember I’m supposed to be breathing through my nose.
“GUYS. MOMMY IS DRIVING. I love you! But yelling is dangerous right now.”
My declaration does not persuade them. A full second of stunned silence passes through the car before the shrills return at a higher pitch. The emasculated truck throttles his engine. The Acura tenderly totters along at 40 in the 45.
I am about to put on my blinker and pull over because the devil will not meet me today when I realize we’re about to come to an intersection. I am turning right, but the two cars are going straight.
When the light turns green, the Dodge flies out from behind me and Grandma, onto the empty left-hand turning lane. He drives his micropenis away, but not before leaving a cloud of diesel smoke behind. How badly he needed to mark his territory and reclaim his slowed masculinity is painful. The Acura keeps her steady pace as people begin putting their blinkers on to pass her.
I notice Jet’s tantrum has momentarily ceased, and I turn my head to see him staring wide-eyed at the windshield.
“Momma, do you see that big puff of smoke? Cool truck!” Lennox joins in with an “ooooh.” I swear I can see the driver’s middle finger through his back window.
As I turn off the intersection, I catch a final glimpse of the Acura’s shape in the dark cloud. She is blissfully unaware as she leaves my view.
I hope she is okay wherever she goes, but also, fuck her. Fuck the fact that I am fighting cancer only to die for her oblivious joyride.
This has been my summer.
It’s actually been a great summer. Since my last post, I boarded my first plane without Gable or the kids. My bestie of 10+ years, Elena, plucked me from the Seattle Tacoma airport and taxied me through the Pacific Northwest. Our authentic American girl road trip went eastbound through the cascades, the lakes of Idaho, and into the valley of Missoula, Montana. Our other bestie, Kelsey, married the love of her life on a hillside vista overlooking the mountains.
Of course, the guilt was insurmountable, but being my own person for five days was precious.
To be amongst people who do know me as well as I do; is there anything better?
To feel truly comfortable in your company?
To be out of your element but without panic?
I didn’t even need the Xanax that I left on my kitchen table. Not once.
Upon discovering that my medications bag was missing a particular calming orange bottle, Elena scurried to her kitchen and began mixing herbal tinctures.
“Here,” she said, holding out sleeping supplements, and I took them gladly.
I slept like a rock under her care.
Hell, I ate the healthiest food and lapped up a sea of seltzer as her guest.
But that’s Elena, a true Jersey girl through and through. Swears like a sailor, drives like a bat out of hell, but will spoil you rotten every chance she gets.
I’ve loved that girl for over a decade and will every day for the rest of my life.
I hate having to miss her.
SURPRISE! I was also diagnosed with lymphedema in my left breast! (The breast affected by cancer). What I feared to be the beast’s return turned out to be a giant annoyance.
When lymph nodes are removed, fluid will sometimes clog certain body parts. The only way to remove the fluid is through lymphatic drainage via massage and exercise. Fortunately for me, my liquid requires an hour-long lymphatic massage per treatment.
When I’m not being pampered three times a week, I still go to hormone therapy, follow-ups, and testing. September dangles over my head, the end of active treatment.
On days I don’t see the doctors, I have started seeing new friends at the gym. While signing Jet up for swim lessons at the YMCA, I blabbed to the receptionist about juggling kids and cancer. She looked at me bright-eyed and asked if I had heard of the Livestrong program. I was in communication with the director of the program the following day.
The Livestrong program at the YMCA is a 12-week-long series of group workouts with fellow cancer patients. We collectively attempt cardio, weight lifting, strength training, balance, and other physical endeavors twice weekly. Though the general age group is slightly above mine, the mutual comradely in cancer survivorship transcends time. Our little club is a proper group; we cheer each other on, groan at more reps, and celebrate each individual’s progress. The sense of community fills a gaping hole in my cancer life that I didn’t realize was present.
An additional draw for me is the child watch services included with Livestrong and morning gym hours. After being hidden away in Covid and chemo quarantine, Jet and Lennox are finally evolving their little social spheres. Lennox is typically the leader of the pack, while Jet stays back and quietly colors with another shy kid.
The chance to reclaim my physicality while watching the kids being normal kids has been the joy of my season.
If you were to look at my calendar, only a few blank spots would catch your gaze. And even though most of the filled spaces are doctor’s appointments, there are a few events that balance out cancer’s pull. Jet’s swim lessons, a girl’s night dinner, and the two date nights are just a few things that give me hope that my future calendars will look normal again.
Summer keeps us juggling and tap dancing, but it’s a temporary dance. We see Autumn on the horizon and anticipate ringing the bell for the last time.
Jet starts preschool on September 11th.
September 13th is my last hormone treatment.
September 14th is my last physical therapy.
We are getting there. Whether barreled down by impatience or arbitrarily riding through time, my intersection is just around the corner.
Kathlyn Ramsey Moore 