Test Results: Positive

Three spots. Score of 6. Survival rate at 5 years 100%. Prognosis: 10-15 years if left untreated. The words swirl around me like an eddy of snow, but I’ve already gone numb. Their meaning is distant, something viewed through the wrong end of a telescope. What is close, the violator delighting in predatory intimacy, is “Cancer”. It has lodged itself somewhere deep in my gut and is resting there secure in its ability to kill my husband.
I have taken refuge in Starbucks. I know he won’t want me to share this just as surely as I know that I must. He will argue it’s so very early. “Lucky.” That’s what the doctor said. If it progresses we can always just remove the prostate, and we’re back to zero risk. Why drag anybody else into it?
But I can’t believe it. The mocker is flaunting his psychopathic intentions toward my husband. Icy fingers have closed around my heart. Last night’s fitful sleep was haunted by specters. Cancer took my father. Will it take my husband also? Will it steal Hannah’s father away from her? Oh God, I can’t do single parenting again. Somebody make it go away.
I should be at work, but I can’t go. I don’t want to explain tears or moodiness, and I don’t have the energy to pretend. I want to run away, but there’s nowhere to go. Lord help me.