A New Day

It is Wednesday morning. The sun is barely up, shining through the front window which is covered in a thin red shawl. The shawl serves as a make-shift blind in our make-shift bedroom. It casts everything in magenta. Trudi's leg is lying against mine, and her breath is warm against my face. I'm lying on my side, with my hands tucked into the cool folds of my pillow. There is the steady and soft whooshing of traffic outside. The dogs stir, yawn, climb up from under the covers. I feel one curl against my chest and sigh deeply. Everything feels massively peaceful.

The morning's dreams float away; thin clouds of faces and shapes scudding off. The word "tumor" drifts above me, barely a wisp. I expect it to fade away, like the other dreams. Just another fragment that will become lost, that had meaning just moments ago but now is nothing but a unintelligible sliver of a reality that no longer matters.

All at once, I wake rapidly. I sit up on my elbows, and look at Trudi's face--she's asleep and quite still. The dogs are tired, but their eyes are open, watching me, ready as always for their walk.

I am awake now, and the that word, tumor, is stubborn. It settles in me, on top of me. It covers me. Suddenly, all the memories of the previous day come back. The first neurosurgeon, the second, the procession of pre-op tests, all those phone calls to our parents.

I close my eyes. Just five more minutes, I think. Just five more minutes. But I know it's time to start the day.