There’s nothing I can do, so I ask if I can drive.
Twenty minutes later, we pull onto the block, and I do a quick scan to get my bearings. It doesn’t take long to spot it—a Yves Klein blue and white sign with the address. I pay the meter 25 cents, just enough time to leave the car as is, parked dead center in front of the entrance. I dip into the Key Foods across the street for some bevs. When I return with two Poppis, I step under the awning and, for the first time, notice the words CANCER CARE in all capital letters.
At the reception desk, a woman greets patients with kindness, though exhaustion lingers in her voice as she explains, “An intermittent internet outage has disrupted the daily appointment schedule.” She motions for us to take a seat and return the clipboard once the forms are completed.
We sip slowly, waiting. I help Val mentally thumb through eight decades of health records. In the seconds between thoughts, there are no pockets of silence—only the mounted TV in the corner, chirping the theme music of General Hospital at a louder-than-normal volume. Other people shuffle in and out of the lobby, yet somehow, it feels like we’re the only ones here.
I didn’t know what to expect, but when it’s over, we’re both relieved. Not because there’s good news or anything—just that it’s late, and cold, and we’re the last to leave the building.
It’s also Valentine’s Day.
I’m suddenly, acutely aware of it. On the walk back to the car, my gaze flickers, caught by the fluorescent glow of oversized teddy bears and multi-colored carnations wrapped in cellophane. In less than twelve hours, these pink plushies will go from tokens of love to overstock, marked down and put up for adoption. That leaves a decent amount of time for some inner loathing and self-pity.
I’m embarrassed.
One—for caring about being alone on Valentine’s Day, especially given the current circumstance.
Two—for feeling like the runt of the litter, the last pick for kickball.
I’m embarrassed to feel. To care.
It’s second nature for me to romanticize loneliness—I pretend my life is the plot of a Cameron Diaz movie. Swinging my hips around in my underwear, giggling at the girl in the mirror. I’m good at it, too—thanks to my 9-to-5, which involves marketing expensive chocolate-covered strawberries and sell-a-brating love.
We’re down to less than eleven hours now. I give myself a little more time for this pity party for one. I time my Uber Eats order perfectly with my return home.
I read somewhere that sadness is just self-obsession.
Lately, this thought has been weighing on me, especially against the backdrop of the world’s state of affairs. The breaking news we just received makes it easy to twist my feelings of sadness into gratitude.
I have the gift of time. The ability to love and be loved. To feel the air and pause before taking a deep breath.
I am here because two people loved each other. And two more before them.
Forgive me for getting emotional. But isn’t it lucky—to care this much? To feel it all?