The Choice

Once upon a time, there was a girl. Old for a bride and young for a widow, she carried with her a memory and a reminder. The reminder served once to stir a tall iced tea, served in a restaurant as a reward. Her habit, her pattern as it were, was to counter every scary moment in life with something fun. A ritual set forth by her mother who knew perfectly well that young girls require a milk shake or similar treat after facing the horrific experience of mouth open wide, while a stranger's hands poke, prod, and drill. Certainly such moments could be tempered with a milkshake for a treat, or possibly a Sundae.

Well trained to seek a moment of joy after a moment of fear and maybe even pain, she gave no alternatives as she drove their transport away from the clinic, having learned a skill she never wished to have and faced a fear she never hoped to face, and set her focus on lunch. Not just any lunch, a lovely lunch. Something arranged all lovely on the plate, something in a festive atmosphere like the quaint little corner of the antiquated station, turned gathering place.

As hard as she tried, she could not embrace the shock of learning things she thought only nurses knew and did. She fought it, but she whined and complained and she could not gain the satisfaction she had hoped would come from this special meal, in this lovely place, with her knight in shining armor looking at her from across the table. She thought he would be so terribly humiliated by their casual approach to this lesson they taught her, yet there he was, so brave and unmoved by the days uninvited invasion of his personal bubble. But, then, his bubble had been invaded years ago, when first given the diagnosis at age 7. Cancer. He was as used to being invaded as any man could become used to it. Not at all, really, but enough that he could hold steady for her.

Patiently he listened as she stated and stated again that she couldn't believe the medical profession would expect this of her. She couldn't believe they would expect her to learn to do things she thought only they did. How could they take this task out of the hands of the professionals and expect her to do it?

He listened, and he listened, for she was not a widow yet. He was there for her, he was caring for her and yet he needed her so very desperately to stand strong and hold firm her conviction of doing whatever it took to create a life together. Then he noticed it in his tea, the swizzle stick. He began to ponder. At last, he held it up, saying only three words, then silence and a long, a very long, look. "It's a choice". A sort of stunned silence fell on the table...then a genuine sense of calm won out.