Last night, I took a walk. Like many things in life, it wasn't planned. It just sort of happened.
Like cancer.
I had an amazing weekend. I laughed. I loved. I spent time with my kids, my friends and my family. As Sunday drew to a close, I started to head home. I was simply going to walk to Dale and catch a bus home. I said my goodbyes and left with that plan in mind.
As I walked the streets and alleys of downtown St Paul, with the memories of the awesome weekend washing over me. I got lost in my head. Birthday parties and bowling and laser tag. Saturday morning donuts. Smiles and laughter at Culver's after rehearsal. The look on the gentleman's face when I gave him the literal shirt off my back because he hadn't gotten the free Saints jersey. My daughter's smile in the picture she sent me from the wig store.
Reality has a way of crashing in when we least expect it. Somewhere just past University and Rice, my mood shifted. I had an awesome weekend. So many good memories. So much concrete and concentrated joy. But just ahead was the unknown. Tomorrow.
My mother starts chemotherapy today. The cancer has been removed. The prognosis is good.
But they are injecting literal poison into her body today. It's terrifying even as it's logical and necessary and as safe as they can make it.
It was late. It was dark. My phone was dead and I was alone. None of that scared me nearly as much as the unknown of tomorrow. I found myself still walking. Soaking in the sights of Rice St after dark. The street which feels like it was a bustling center of commerce at one time and could be again. Over the bridge above the railroad tracks. Past a library I once visited with the kids. Up and down as the road made it's way to the suburbs.
I couldn't control tomorrow. But I could walk. And in that moment, I needed the tiny victory.
Memories came flooding in. I pass a car dealer and think of the time my mother took me to practice driving in the parking of the very same Middle School that tomorrow I will rehearse in with my children. How she stopped herself two steps on the soccer field when I got undercut when going for a header and landed on my face. The look on her face as she was torn from rushing to me and giving me the space I needed; all of Parenthood in one facial expression.
How at the two scariest moments of my life, when each of my children came into the world dramatically and premature - she flew to me. From Minnesota to Massachusetts. From Colorado to Kentucky. How in the very moment I was about to be come a parent, she asked me what she could do, and I said "I just need my mom"
We don't do a good enough job of telling the people we love that we love them.
So I kept walking. Right around Arlington and the softball fields and batting cages I haven't frequented since high school, the tears came in. It must have been a sight. A grown man, walking at night, tears running down his checks as a smile crept onto his face.
So much. So many memories. So many fears. So many steps.
It was a much longer walk than I meant it to be.
I crossed over Larpenteur and passed the building that used to house Simick's. We'd go to pick up meatballs for a party and they'd always have samples. It never feels like a party without meatballs.
Pass the bus barn that is now in the spot of the old minigolf and batting cages. Over Roselawn and toward the Cub where on Thanksgiving we saw a flock of turkeys hanging out in the parking lot like they were at a wake.
I stopped and got some water and a drink at McCarron's. Mostly to sit and play a game of Ms. Pac-Man but also to rest my feet. It felt a bit silly that it had taken me so long to walk that far. But I had done it. It was a process but it was almost complete.
I know that is where we are with this cancer thing. It's a process. It's almost complete. This poison is the next step.
Prognosis is good. But I'm still scared. Because as I walked last night, as I thought last night - It is as true now as it ever has been:
I just need my mom.
