Feeling no control of my own body, my own thoughts, I continue to pace the floor, going room to room without a clear purpose. I keep finding myself wondering, “What am I doing here?”

I find solace in petting my dog, cuddling with her. I keep telling Isabela how much I love her. My body is listless and I’m certain the blood has drained from it. I cannot focus on any one thing. So I sit on the steps outside with my dog and I pet her and tell her over and over again, “Mommy loves you. Daddy’s going to be fine.”

After talking to Greg this morning before he left the island for his appointment at The Everett Clinic, I realize I was confused about the events of yesterday. Greg did not see Dr. Jeffrey Adams. He saw an ARNP, Amy Williams. She is the one who called him yesterday while he was in the ferry line and told him Dr. Adams would see him and do the biopsy today. She was the one who ordered the blood work up, the chest x-ray and the CT scan. She is the one who pushed other patients aside to make room for him instantly from the walk-in clinic. In these moments of panic, dread, and fear, I imagine myself hugging her, thanking her for taking care of my guy, and being so kind, making things happen for him so quickly.

Waiting again. What will we learn today? Can I expect any good news? Are they sure they just can’t operate to remove this tumor? What if there is cancer somewhere else in his body? What are we going to do? Now I’m angry with myself for not going with him to Washington. He shouldn’t have to do this alone. What was I thinking? It would be easier for me to be there to know what is going on anyway. Why did I stay home? I’m choking on my fear. My stomach is empty, but I feel like I’m going to throw up. It must be the adrenaline coursing through my body. I’ve always hated adrenaline. That’s why I don’t do roller coasters, and yet that’s what I’m on right now. Again, I have to remind myself to breathe. In and out. Calm down.

I busy myself with chores. Nothing like the mindless jobs of cleaning house and doing laundry. And then the phone rings.

There is no good news. Dr. Adams takes a sample for a biopsy, but says he is sure the tumor is cancerous (he’s seen a lot of these) and it is too big and close to the bone to remove it with surgery. Even when he does surgery to remove a tumor he recommends chemo and radiation afterward. The results of the biopsy will take at least a week, and he strongly recommends that Greg go home, pack up his clothes, his wife and dog, and drive up to Washington right away. There is no time to spare. My husband has cancer.

I change Greg’s return flight and he comes home three days sooner than planned. He left on Wednesday the 19th of October, got a work up on Thursday, a biopsy on Friday, and he’s back in my arms on Saturday. We have a lot to do to be ready for our 1900 mile drive from the tip of Baja to the Seattle area in Washington.

The night before we leave for Washington

I don’t know how we did it, but we manage to drive away from our beautiful home on Tuesday October 24, 2016 knowing only that our future will include treatment for cancer. We have barely a small inkling of the hell we are going to experience.