"Kick some squamous ass!" *

This is what I've been going around saying lately:

"So, S (partner/husband) had a thing removed at the dermatologist and it came back that it was skin cancer. The good kind, though, not the bad kind, just squamous cell carcinoma, which sounds terrible, but is actually good, not like melanoma. He had some surgery to get it out, got stitches and a scar, and now is doing just fine."

That's the speech. It's helpful, and true, and I guess it's what we need to say, most of the time. But it's not quite what I really feel about it. When he first got the call, from the actual doctor, not a nurse, not a tech, not a postcard saying all is well, I sort of knew that something was going on. I walked in the room where he was finishing up his call and saw that he had written in his chicken scratch on a notepad "Squamous Cell Carcinoma" so that even I could read it.

I felt like my head was going to detach from my body, all floaty. We were at his parents' house, but I don't think it really would have mattered where we were. His parents at the time seemed supremely unconcerned, but I know them better....indeed they have called every few days "just to see." So would I, if this "minor cancer" happened to my boy.

And that's the weird thing about it. Certainly the treatment was no fun for him...he has a scar on his nose for the rest of his life. But it's the "rest of his life" thing that was the biggest thing for me, the biggest weight. I thought right after I saw that "squamous cell carcinoma" on the paper that nothing will ever be the same after this. I didn't think it in a dramatic way...just as a fact...and it is true, nothing will be the same. I will always, always be conscious that cancer was in my beloved's body and could come back....in fact, probably WILL come back in other spots, we've heard anecdotally. There will be more surgery and another day of painkillers, another scar. More sunscreen and a bigger hat.

This is what drains me, when I stop to think about it. The way I already ask him, fake casually, if he brought his hat or if he put the "55" on. I flash back to my dad's death, of course, the biggest trauma so far of my life. I buy sun protection shirts and gadgets and fifty kinds of sunscreen for the kids, paranoia shopping, as fearful as someone at war.

Mostly, though, I am grateful, and that makes me even sadder. I am grateful for this good man who is my match in nearly every way, and I am grateful for our 10 years without serious incident to either of our health. I'm grateful that it was a small one and not the Big One.

And I'm grateful that our life goes on. Because it does.

* First line of one of the BEST emails we got after telling our lovely chickpastor friend about the diagnosis