I carefully choose my steps as I descend from our bedroom, trying to remember where the floor creaks in this new home. After a day that began at 3:30 am with a teething baby, nap time comes as a great relief. But one of the adjustments of this new home is a shared room for the boys, who haven’t quite grasped the concept. At nap time, I settle for the baby in his crib and our toddler in our bed, surrounded by pillows and blankets. He covets his time in “the big bed” and I smile to myself as I remember his disdain for my company when I climbed into bed with him, reading until he drifted off to sleep and then trying to drift off myself, rewarding my long night with a few precious moments of rest. But with ever pillow shift, every adjustment, my three year old wakes and stares at me, first confused and then annoyed—he hasn’t yet mastered the art of subtlety. I allow him his rest and sneak out of the room, avoiding the squeaks and creaks, searching for a place to rest.
I feel the exhaustion clinging to the rims of my eyes and as I reach the last step to the living room, I find the couch occupied. My husband, also invited to the no-sleep party last night, rests peacefully on the small sofa.
I misstep and his eyelids flutter open. He generously scoots himself back on the couch, allowing me some room. I lay with him but the sofa is small, not meant for afternoon naps, certainly not meant for two. I try to find a comfortable nook but end up entangled in him, perched on the edge, trying not to fall.
“If the basement were functional, I’d be able to lay on the queen-sized pullout down there!” I whisper, exasperated but smiling.
I remember the scene from just over a week ago. “What’s hell, Daddy?” I hear my toddler say at the bottom of the basement stairs as I put away dishes in the kitchen one floor up. The basement is their playroom and by far the most used area of this small house. Each word echoes up the basement stairs as I listen, curious for the response.
“Here! This is hell! Right here! H-E-L-L! Hell!”
Someone with my husband’s voice is yelling in frustration and I sprint down the stairs to gauge the situation for myself. I am stunned yet relieved to see it is actually my husband, for once, raging.
“The basement is flooded!” he shouts as he stomps the wet floor to illustrate. “I can’t believe how naive I was thinking this place wouldn’t flood!”
I grab the boys, “time to go upstairs,” I say, trying to be bright, cheery. I call his parents as a request for backup and then call the property manager, already busy with other basements full of water from the fast and furious rainstorms tonight. A clean-up crew will be here within the hour I tell my husband, but he is lost in a world he doesn’t often visit, and so I leave him there, moving boxes yet unpacked that were stored in the basement for a later date, soaking up water, cleaning up the mess. And somehow, I find his rage is calming. He’s finally feeling.
Three days later the basement floor begins to buckle and then three hours later, the floor is gone. The basement, an entire floor of our home, a play space for the boys, now unrecognizable, our things piled up into one corner of the room to allow the rest of the floor to dry.
“If“, my husband smiles through closed eyes as he pulls me in closer, coaxing me to rest. I stay beside him but my mind wanders; I look out the window into the yard and watch the american flag billow in the breeze. I shift my gaze to a wall of paintings at the foot of the couch, illustrations of all the homes we’ve lived in during our marriage. Four paintings in as many years. I glance around the cozy living room, only a few ago filled with boxes stacked to the ceiling, and yet it already feels like home. If only I had known that we’d grow to love this house, already, as much as the others.
Friday night, hot and unbearably humid, we wait in line for a concert at Wolf Trap. The doors open promptly at six and we make our way through the sweat-soaked crowd to a shaded hillside, sharing our blanket with our friends, our melanoma mentors. This couple that has already lived the life we are living sits next to us and shares stories and wine and we laugh so hard we cry. And I think to myself, If my husband hadn’t had cancer, we’d have never met this beautiful couple….
We sip champagne and smile and act like teenagers on this blanket on the bluff. Harry Connick Jr. sings and talks and dances through his show, and as the sun starts to set and the fireflies begin their nightly dance, a familiar song plays. Our friends find their way to each other and, arms wrapped around each other, sway to the jazzy music. Their song—their first dance on the day they vowed to each other a lifetime—plays into the warm night air and floats up to us on the hill. They sway to the music and I snap a picture, saving this moment in time for myself as much as for them. Because they are still here—together—and still dancing, after so many ifs.
I hear the song but have ceased to listen, my mind is whirring with ifs. If they had known what had awaited them on the day they first danced this song together, if they had known the struggles they’d face, the pain, the tears, the sickness. But if they’d known all of that, they wouldn’t have known the good: the children to be made, the laughs to be had, the sunset dances on hillsides in the summer. The life to be lived.
Screw the ifs, I decide as I turn to the group. The show is ending and I raise my glass in a toast to the two survivors, celebrating clean PET scans and the absence of the uninvited guest in the bodies of these men and in the lives of us all. We raise our glasses in health, and we toast to life instead of ifs. We celebrate the now, and I let go of the ifs–every last one.
Because ifs are creaky floors and flooded basements and cancer—all the unwanteds and unknowns of life. And love is stepping around the creaks, cleaning up the water, toasting life. So we step, we mop, we toast. We love, we live. Every day. Together.