Featured Stories Straight From Our Pages
Beyond the Veil
My husband and I climbed into the car on a gray-sky Friday morning, reflexively starting the engine and buckling our seat belts. He pushed the clutch to the floor putting us in reverse, even stretching his arm to my headrest while looking over his right shoulder before he froze, looking at me. I stared back dumbfounded, unable to answer the question I saw on his tear-stained face: where do you go after you find out you have cancer?
We drove blindly through the city, sharing pieces of the pathology report we managed to hear: Stage III, aggressive, metastatic. My prognosis was unclear, but the nurse’s piteous face and tone did not bode well for me. We found ourselves by the water’s edge. Gripping each other’s hands, we gazed at the horizon: the vanishing point our eyes perceive to be the end of the ocean, but what our minds know is actually a curve of the Earth.
When we felt strong enough to play pretend, we drove home to the kids.