Then:
I do not remember waking up on that fall morning and lying in bed, thinking, “today something significant is going to happen.” I do not recall it being any bit different from any other Thursday in October for that matter. But, in the end, by the time I made my way back to bed that night my life would be changed, maybe not in some monumental way, but surely in a way that allows me to recollect on that day with vivid memories:
It’s October 2003 and the whole family is at our house on Ulsterville Road in Pine Bush, New York. We are at the dinner table: my mother at one end of the table, my brother, Alex sitting across from me, and my father at the far end of the table. Nothing out of the ordinary; it’s Thursday night, one of the only nights of the week the whole family can eat together. We have just finished eating dinner and I am looking out the picture window that looks out over the front yard and driveway, it is just past sunset though, and everything is shadowed and unclear. No one is talking; well, no one who normally is talking, at least. My dad, who is normally silent during dinner, is talking. I am silently thinking to myself, “Oh, shit. Are you kidding me?” I just keep telling myself not to move or talk or do anything that might make the tears that are right on the brink, fall. My dad is saying something about how it’s not a huge deal, he just wanted to let us, my brother and I, know what was going on because he might be tired and weaker than normally. Nevertheless, I’m not listening anymore–he had already said the words that mattered in my mind. I am wondering what my brother is thinking, wondering if he is going to ask some stupid question to make it that much worse. I am just sitting there, not sure whether I should stay or just get up and put my dishes in the dishwasher– bring things back to the typical that I know so well.
At this point, it does not matter what else had happened that day. It was not an ordinary day; it was not typical. Our family is not one of those families that have serious talks around the dinner table; it was not a typical day. Why do I remember this day? Why is it so vividly engraved in my memory? Well, I suppose it is because, not everyday does your father’s cancer comes back.
Now:
My alarm goes off from somewhere at the end of my bed. I begrudgingly force myself to get out from underneath my covers and crawl to the far side of the bed to turn off the incessant buzzing of my alarm–god I hate that sound. I consider laying back down, you know, a few more minutes is all I need? But, I know better than that–it’s 5:05am and I have to be real with myself, so I climb down the ladder from my loft bed. As I search the refrigerator for an apple and my container of muscle milk I tell myself “It’s Tuesday, only three more times this week do you have to do this.” It’s suppose to be reassuring, but today it’s just a bigger letdown, three more days. And obviously I know that I will have to do it all over next week again and the next week and the next…so the comfort doesn’t come today. It’s not that I don’t like swimming–I really do, but, the mornings are hard. I take a swig of the thick, chalky beverage that my coach has convinced me is the secret to obtaining any of my goals by the end of the season–I thought thats what I got up at 5am was for? I throw the apple and my water bottle into my bag by the door, and pull on a pair of thermal pants underneath my sweatpants, it’s a cold bike ride to practice. I then pull on a sweatshirt. I check the indoor/outdoor thermostat, 11 degrees, great. I pull on my winter coat, zipping it up to the top so that it covers part of my face, pull my hat tightly over my ears and shove my fingers into my gloves. As I exit my apartment and step into the cold Albany air, I think to myself, 27 more days. But who’s really counting anyways?
