Chapter 3 - Lucy’s Cancer Began With a Lump She Almost Ignored
Lucy found the lump eighteen months after I first left.
Near her collarbone.
Small.
Painless.
She assumed:
swollen lymph node.
A week passed.
Then another.
She finally called her doctor.
Bloodwork.
Imaging.
Biopsy.
The diagnosis was an aggressive lymphoma.
The oncologist was clear:
serious,
but treatable.
The treatment plan involved:
multi-cycle chemotherapy,
regular bloodwork,
imaging,
supportive medications,
close follow-up.
When Lucy told me over video, I stared at the screen.
“What do you mean cancer?”
Exactly the kind of useless sentence people say when language cannot fit reality.
She cried.
I cried.
Then:
“I’m coming home.”
She said:
“Wait.”
“What?”
“You have the mediation next week.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
“Lucy.”
“You finally got them to the table.”
“I’m coming home.”
She covered her face.
Then:
“Can you come after?”
That became our first compromise.
I attended the mediation.
It failed.
I booked a flight.
Then my mother called.
“Lucy wants to stay here during treatment.”
I said:
“What?”
Theresa lived twenty minutes from the oncology center.
Our townhouse was almost an hour away in traffic.
My mother had:
a ground-floor guest room,
flexible retirement,
a large kitchen,
experience caring for my father through heart surgery before he died.
Lucy confirmed it.
“It’s easier.”
“Do you want me home?”
Long pause.
“Yes.”
That should have ended:
everything.
But then Lucy said:
“Not because I’m dying.”
“I know.”
“I need you to understand that.”
“I do.”
“I don’t want you throwing away everything because I’m scared.”
“You’re my wife.”
“And you are two weeks away from another settlement conference.”
There.
Money again.
We decided:
I would fly home for:
two weeks
after her first treatment cycle.
Then return only if:
she needed me,
treatment worsened,
or the case dragged beyond another sixty days.
I came home.
Lucy had not lost her hair yet.
She looked:
tired,
afraid,
still like Lucy.
I went to one oncology appointment.
Heard the doctor say:
treatment intent remained curative.
That sentence became dangerous in my mind.
Curative.
Meaning:
she will be okay.
Not what the doctor meant.
He meant:
they were treating with the goal of remission.
Medicine does not issue guarantees because frightened husbands need them.
Lucy started treatment.
I stayed twelve days.
On day ten, my Canadian attorney called.
New evidence.
Company wanted another mediation.
I told Lucy:
“I can cancel.”
She answered:
“No.”
“Go.”
Her eyes filled.
“Finish it.”
I kissed her.
Promised:
“Six weeks.”
Then flew back.
Six weeks became:
months.
May you like
That was the beginning of the part I can no longer explain with contracts alone.
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