Celebrating My Clean Bill of Health After Cancer

To celebrate the fact that I was cancer-free, my husband and I went out to lunch.

It’s been 14 years since my first breast cancer and 9 years since my second. As usual, I still have my yearly mammograms and routine check-ups with my oncologist. Both testing procedures gave me a CBOH this year: a clean bill of health this year. I am cancer-free as far as anyone knows.

Since I got such good news this year, my husband of 28 years wanted to take me out to celebrate. We discussed where to go for a celebratory lunch.

“How about D’Angelo’s?” I asked. This was our favorite restaurant. We always went there for birthdays, anniversaries and other happy times.

“No,” said Stephen. “I’m tired of that place.”

“The Tomato Grill?”

“That’s not open on Sundays.”

“Aladdin’s Eatery?”

“How about Leo’s?”

“Where’s that?”

“Front Street.”

“That’s the place that Lori wants to go.” Lori was a close friend. “Good idea. Let’s go there.”

We drove over and were seated immediately. It was cloudy, but the rain was holding off.

“Now, this is on me,” I said. “Order anything you want. Do you want some calamari?”

“Not really.”

I wanted to take my husband out to show him how appreciative I was for him. He’d stuck by me through thick and thin. Through a double mastectomy, chemo, radiation and ten years of Tamoxifen. Through years of fatigue and illness, and now, I’m healthy. I started walking daily. Goodness, I hadn’t been in such good health for 20 years. An appreciation luncheon wasn’t much, but it was the thought that counted.

“Have a drink,” I said.

“I’ll have an iced tea,” he told the waitress.

“Don’t you want something a little stronger? Have a martini. It’s on me.”

“Iced tea is fine.”

“I’ll have one too,” I told our waitress.

We looked at the menu. He decided on the breakfast pizza, and I picked the salmon salad.

“I like this place,” I said, looking around. We were sitting in the large, main dining room, which was painted stark white. The square tables had white tablecloths, which were covered with squares of white paper. Contrasting, large black salt and pepper shakers sat on each table.

“If I gave you this place, would you take it?” Stephen asked. It was the little game we played. What would the other take if it were offered to them on a platter?

“Yes,” I said.

“Would you turn it into a writing studio?” This was always the next question in this game.

“I’d turn part of it into a writing studio.”

“That little room back there?” he asked, pointing to a small room off the main room.

“Yes, I’d make that my writing studio.”

For some reason, we took great pleasure in this banter.

The waitress came, and we placed our orders.

As we waited for our food to come, we ate homemade, yeasty bread dipped in balsamic vinegar and olive oil with herbs. We drank our tea.

“This is good, iced tea,” I said.

“It is.”

“I love iced tea. I could sit here and watch the rain and drink it all day.”

Did I mention it was now pouring down rain? We were sitting next to a floor-to-ceiling window. We couldn’t help but observe the steady rain. “I hope it stops before we have to go,” I said.

We ate our lunches in silence, the silence of a happy 28-year marriage, and then, the bill came.

“This is on me,” I said again, picking up the little black, vinyl folder which contained the bill.

“No,” said my husband. “It’s on me.”

“I wanted to treat you. I wanted to give you something for being there for me during my cancer years.”

“You give me something every day.”

And so, it was settled. He paid, and I couldn’t protest. When he got an idea in his head, there was no changing his mind.

That was my CBOH party, my clean bill of health celebration.

After we were square with the waitress, we ducked out into the rain. He told me to stand under the awning so I wouldn’t get soaked, and he walked the short way to our car. And darn, if he didn’t open the trunk, take out a huge golf umbrella and walk back to me where I stood under the canvas awning. Then, he escorted me to the car, as we walked under the double umbrella, I have to say, I didn’t feel a drop of cool water.

He was a gentleman through and through. It seemed as though the pain we’d suffered in our marriage due to my cancer had molded him into the platonic form of a man — kind, strong and capable. I have no idea what it molded me into. I was stubborn, resilient, but most importantly, I was alive and kicking.

We drove home and into our garage. The light that usually came on when we opened the garage door had burned out so that the garage was dark.

“The light burned out,” I told him.

“I’ll get on that,” he said.

I silently thanked God for him.

And so, this is how we lived. Until next year’s clean bill of health luncheon (God willing.)

The sun came out, and the rain disappeared. Could it get any better than this?

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