First year dating anniversary poem
Since Johnny Walker has proven himself to be an unpredictable asshole, I bury myself in the 2014 NBA Finals instead. But the week after the diagnosis, the NBA Finals becomes something completely different for me.I bury myself with a fanaticism normally reserved for televangelists and NYSE floor traders. This has moved beyond a battle of villains, heroes, rings, legacies, pundits, fan bases and statistics. I need to know that it’s possible to rebound from a horrific, soul-crushing loss and return stronger, more focused, and triumph. The last 48 hours have been a marathon of medical appointments. I assumed I’d have at least a few decades until our first family health crisis. The bros continue to scream outside our bedroom window, pulling me back to reality and the blank ceiling in our apartment.
Never before have I better understood the healing power of alcohol. Seema looks radiant, wearing a red and green sari while holding a cup of chai. I can’t help but up suddenly, staring at the ceiling of our apartment. It’s our only escape from having to deal with the newfound stress and sadness that has entered our lives.
“We need to make an appointment with an oncologist.” I stare at her. She’s ahead of me emotionally and I’m jealous of her head start. Dad and Aai are with us during our first appointments to ask follow-up questions and throw out suggestions for medications or procedures. I didn’t think that was possible, but I accept it with open arms. Seema and I would attend a State Dinner with Barack and Michelle.
I fear the cycle of sadness she’s experienced that I soon will. We try to keep up, but the conversation quickly becomes complex physician speak. As we schedule and await Seema’s first scans that will indicate the severity of the cancer, it becomes increasingly difficult to manage the flood of uncertainties about our future. I recently quit my strenuous job as a creative director at a successful advertising agency with plans to freelance as a hired creative gun. I’d make an off-the-cuff joke about Joakim Noah’s hair to the President.
It was probably Seema’s mom asking when we were going to visit them in Dallas next, then Seema’s father trying to convince us to just move to Dallas since there is no income tax. They continue to talk and reassure me but the words stop making sense. I would read the 400 books I’ve ordered on Amazon over the past year but have never read. Dwelling on all of these uncertainties will slowly drive me insane. So I search desperately for something, anything, to distract myself.
I don’t know where their confidence originates, but I feel an emptiness in their words that is compounded by the sheer amount of uncertainty that has been laid at our feet. Seema distracts herself by diving into the prose of Junot Diaz and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.
I’m oblivious to their conversation as I look around the beige, asymmetrical waiting room. My wife’s parents have always been generous and loving to me. “Everything is going to be alright, beta.” I don’t understand their positivity. A stunned silence continues to reverberate between the walls as we wait for the doctor. The more we speak with our new doctors, Seema and I are thrilled to learn this group actually has bedside manner. We would finally have time to enjoy New York City with each other and the friends we love. Instead, we are on the phone with NYU trying to figure out the exact date Seema’s student health insurance will expire.