August 1972
Joan pulls on a pair of drawstring pants and cinches them tight around her waist. Her already petite frame has lost enough weight that the jeans and slacks she was wearing just two months ago no longer fit. She still tries out her mom’s recipes, but the smell of the food ultimately makes her nauseous and she ends up nibbling at the food, at best. Her mom and mother-in-law have taken turns making meals and freezing them for ease, but when she’s able, Joan wants to be in the kitchen with Gigi and Christopher.
“Are you feeling good, Mommy?” Gigi asks, peeking her head inside her mom and dad’s bedroom.
Joan hates that cancer has made her five-year-old tiptoe around her at times, wondering if she’s too sick to play a game, take her to the park, or cook together in the kitchen. “I’m feeling awesome!” she says, fibbing.
“Then what’s for breakfast?” Gigi asks, leaning against the bed.
“How about scones or Grandma’s cinnamon loaf? Of course, that needs to rise, so it will take a long time, but just think of that warm, buttery, cinnamony goodness with pecans on top!”
Gigi thinks for a second. “What’s the shorter thing you said?”
“Scones.” Joan tidies her bed as she talks. Even on her worst days she likes to make the bed, convinced that it helps her feel better. “It’s like a yummy, heavy biscuit with blueberries, raspberries, chocolate chips, cinnamon, or whatever we want to put inside them. Grandma used to make them for me when I was your age.”
“Mmm!” Gigi says, helping her mom make the bed. “Chocolate chips, please!”
Joan laughs. “I knew you would say that. Did Daddy already leave for work?”
Gigi nods, tossing a throw pillow onto the bed. “I think so. I couldn’t find him when I came downstairs.”
John has been going to work earlier each day with the heating and air-conditioning repair company so he can be home by midafternoon when Joan’s energy falls out beneath her. John lives out the “sickness and health” part of his vows in a way that brings daily tears to Joan’s eyes.
“You didn’t sign up for this,” she told him after she couldn’t make it to the bathroom after her second round of chemo and vomited on their bedroom floor.
“Yes, I did,” he told her matter-of-factly. “So did you. I might cash in your vow someday, so take notes.”
She wanted to laugh, but another wave of nausea made her double over. John grabbed her and carried her into the bathroom, where she vomited into the toilet. “What about your table, John?” she said after the last wave was finished.
“That’s what you’re thinking as you stare into the toilet?” She nodded her head. “A toilet makes you think of the table I’m building?” She began to snicker. “Really? A toilet? How offensive is that?”
She laughed out loud, clutching her stomach. “Don’t make me laugh, John!”
“Then don’t compare my table to a toilet.”
Her voice echoed off the bathroom walls as she howled, reaching for his hand. He helped her to her feet and flushed the toilet, easing her to the sink. “I’m not comparing the table to a toilet,” she said, rinsing her face and brushing her teeth as she giggled. She turned to look at him and he handed her a towel. “You wanted it finished by October and that’s when you were able to work on it after work and an hour or two on the weekend. Now all of your time after work is taken up in here.”
He helped her back into bed. “My time isn’t ‘taken up,’ Joan. My time is used exactly the way I want to use it.” He pulled the blankets over her thin frame and leaned down to kiss her. “So, I’ll have it done by Thanksgiving instead of October. No big deal.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe the extra time will help me figure out how to make it less like a toilet.”
“Daddy has gotten so good at sneaking out of the house each morning that none of us hears him,” Joan says, smiling at Gigi.
“He’s like a cat!”
“He is like a cat,” Joan says. “Your brother still sleeping?”
“I think so. I haven’t heard him singing yet.” They always knew when Christopher was awake because his tiny voice could be heard trying to sing the songs Joan sang to him, using whatever words he could say, but most of it was babble that made Joan, John, and Gigi laugh while outside the door, listening.
“All right,” Joan says, leading the way into the kitchen. “Let’s find Grandma’s scone recipe and get to work!”
ELEVEN
August 2012
Lauren and Andrea lead the children outside at Glory’s Place and watch as they scatter across the playground. Andrea notices as Lauren puts her hand on her small baby bump. “Are you still bothered with morning sickness?”
Lauren nods. “Just when I think it’s gone it sweeps over me again. Did you have it?”
“For my second child,” Andrea says. “My first pregnancy was a breeze, so I thought my next pregnancy would be the same. I actually lost weight the first four months when I carried my second.”
They sit on a bench next to the swings, where they can see all of the children. “Were you afraid for your first one?” Lauren asks, tying five-year-old Aaron’s shoe when he thrusts it in front of her.
Andrea chuckles. “I was afraid for both of them! For each pregnancy, Bill and I always said, ‘I hope we don’t mess this one up!’”
“How did you know what to do?” Lauren asks, shielding her eyes from the sun so she can get
