The dial tone was all that was left of the call I’d been waiting on for days. I had sworn off the news but it still found me. And it was bad.
I lugged the suitcase up the stairs and onto the duvet and started to mourn my strength. This trip wasn’t a choice. I didn’t ask to go. It wasn’t an affair for invitations. And there was no mention of a plus one. Anywhere.
This suitcase just showed up for me. Packed with all the stuff I’d “need” on my journey.
17 meltdowns were right on top. Enough to last…surely.
4 pairs of despair. Folded neatly.
8 fears. Permanent fears. Packed down into the sides.
11 visions of death. Angels not included.
3 redeemable fast-passes to all the -ologists. All of them.
And 1 chance at living. Surviving.
I called the number back when I noticed they forgot the directions. Nothing resembled instructions.
“Yes, ma’am, that wasn’t a mistake.”
Come to find out, cancer doesn’t need directions.