Popsicle Love
Something romantic happened to me recently - for the first time in a long time.
It started last March, when my husband was advised to have a rather brutal cancer surgery. Without it, he was told, he had no more than six months to live.
My husband didn't want the surgery, so we went to every radiologist and oncologist we could find. Over the course of three months, each doctor told him, "Have the surgery. I cannot help you."
The clock was ticking, and I grew impatient. I told him that if he kept doctor shopping long enough, he would be dead. However, nothing I said made any difference. My anxiety was such that my natural supply of vitamin B was depleted - my mouth and hands were full of sores.
When my husband finally agreed to have the surgery, the doctors told us that because his other health problems, the odds were against his surviving.
So this was our choice. Live for three more months, die on the table, or toss the dice to survive and thrive.
We scheduled the surgery, and re-wrote our wills. We did a detailed inventory of his beautiful paintings and sculptures, and put a "Closed" sign on his one-man art gallery. We found a cat sitter, emptied the fridge, and headed to Utah, for three weeks at the cancer institute.
My husband survived the surgery. Afterward, he wasn't allowed to eat or even drink for five days.
Finally, the big day arrived. The nurse walked into his room with a surprise: a cherry Popsicle.
Ken's first response was this: "Oh, look, Rose! Your favorite!"
He reached for the Popsicle, broke it in two, and gave half to me.
Some people get rose petals and champagne and vows of eternal love, and some people get Popsicles.
I recommend Popsicles.