prose, pathology, and poker

The absolute audacity of the Lord is afoot.

And I mean a real audacity, as He do be taking large risks on a small fry like me. And does He find me audacious? Probably not. Pugnacious, more likely, but still, here He is, calling his sheep together, and who is in the flock after all those altercations with deep holes and flirting with wolves?

Me.

So yeah, I’ll stick with audacious. Because to me, it is.

I was told the loneliest place in the world was the radiology ward. Here, where those whose bodies failed them, whose cells went on too rampant of a Roman holiday sit, and wait to be pumped full of invisible toxins, Chernobyl style. “You will greet the sad faces of the emaciated, of those far sicker than you hoping for a couple more days of life.” This is what I was told. So I prepared myself. Book in hand, I was ready to keep my eyes trained on the page. It is painted with Dickensian hopelessness. Was I daunted? Yeah. But the door opened and I am walking through it. I do this to cut my chances of the cancer recurring in half, and for gals with great tits everywhere. It’s a heavy banner to carry, but someone has to do it.

So color me surprised when I walk into the radiology lobby to sweeping ceilings and a warm receptionist. The waiting room is clean and well appointed with Goldilocks sofas that are the perfect marriage of supportive and soft. There are home improvement shows playing. I am ushered to the treatment area and there meet two older women (always older women) in medical gowns waiting their turn, and we compare ailments with a side of banter. “Where else would I be on a Tuesday at 11am—the Home Depot? I was just there!” one jokes. “I was hoping that at the least I would glow in the dark,” says another, and I join in the fun with “Well ,I was hoping for free teeth whitening from this,” and we all have a good laugh. Then it’s my turn.

The room is large and the florescent lights have been covered over with a scene of nature, giving the illusion of being outside, looking up through tree branches on a day where the sky is more cerulean than just blue. They’re piping in soft pop music and as the treatment begins, I feel nerves run through me. And then words hit me like a wave:

Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me.
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

I leave treatment with a smile and a slightly warmed right breast. I take the stairs because I can. The day is clear and bright and I am filled with its beauty.

~~~

The night slipped up on us like most do, quick and welcome. My sweet Sam is asleep and David sits next to me on the couch. He folds his laptop closed and asks me if I want to play poker. I don’t know how to play. He knows this. I assume this is some ploy at foreplay, but he looks at me in earnest and says “I know how to play and I enjoy it, so I figured you’d probably enjoy it too.” Fine, I’ll bite. With both laptops closed we sit our our slumpy couch and use one of Sam’s books as our table. He deals and teaches me the terminology. Check? Check. On the flop, I have nothing. Neither does he, but we play it through to the turn, and then the river, just to see.

“How much would you have bet?” he says.
“Maybe a nickel” I say. He smiles.
“I think you’re getting it” he says.

We play round after round. That’s a full house—no, that’s only two pair. Good but not great. The highest card here wouldn’t run and we both have shit. He then tells me the story of one time he had four of a kind and his friend, a real alpha male type, had a full house. David said his hands were shaking as they both pushed the bet forward but at the end of the day, David took the lot and quiet guys everywhere won.

I remember the last time a man attempted to teach me poker. He was really only interested in the sexy variety and much to his chagrin, I was wearing a one piece bathing suit under my clothes. And under that? My Southern Baptist morals. It didn’t get far and I learned nothing. Now, I learn the game again, with a man who has seen my naked body in more states and modulatory forms that I care to say, and he teaches me poker so I can learn a new game. One we can play together. One where, when he has a guy’s poker night, he can come home and rehash, hand by hand, his winnings and losings, and the drama of it all. One where I can keep my clothes because he is in it for play.

So I kept my shirt and wiped one memory clean for another.

~~~

These little moments are all I have.

I drive up to radiation determined to be strong, so I put on a banger of a song in the car and jam out in the parking spot reserved for radiology and oncology patients and I put on my reddest lipstick. I am thankful, fearful, and ready. The day is lovely and the appointment takes 20 minutes from stem to stern. All is well and I am surrounded.

In a more private moment, another deck of cards is laid in front of me. Check? Call? We bet imaginary nickels and I confuse a full house for a royal flush. No matter, I’ll get it. He’s a good teacher. Patient and kind. It’s a game I can lose and will never lose.

And now, in a fit, I write it down. These moments no one else sees. Maybe a few techs in radiology and some cheeky old women, and of course, my husband, but no one else sees them. These moments of deep contentment. Of joy that looks like grief and exhaustion. The choices of lipstick in radiology, and a poker game after our son is asleep. So I mark them with words. Scribbled prose as a way of bearing witness.

Because this joy is quiet, unexpected, and fully outside of myself.

It’s audacious.