IT WAS ALMOST A MANTRA WITH LANCE—NO SPECULATING. NO anguish over horrible things that exist only in the mind. But he was guilty of it himself this week, plagued by thoughts that Kendra’s CT scans and MRI would reveal terrible news . . . that her cancer had not only not improved, but gotten worse.
The bad part was it looked like he wouldn’t be able to make it to the appointment with Dr. Contee to hear the news himself. Due to a scheduling conflict, the doctor had to move it up an hour, to ten o’clock. It worked for Kendra, but Lance had had a photo shoot for nine scheduled weeks before. Kendra assured him it was fine. She’d get the results alone. But this was important to him. He wanted to be there.
And he’d be on his way if the Rickshaw family hadn’t decided at the last minute to include their dog in the shoot. Every year, they were one of the first to book their Christmas photo shoot, and every year they asked if they could include the family dog.
“I don’t do pets,” Lance always said, readily offering info for a great photographer who did. For whatever reason, they’d stuck with him. But this year, they’d shown up anyway—with the dog. This really wasn’t the day to try his patience.
“Bunny,” Mrs. Rickshaw sang, coaxing with a toy, “be a good girl and cooperate.”
Bunny had decided she’d much prefer to exercise her legs in the open space and run to and fro. Lance had gotten plenty of candid shots of the family playing with the dog, but Mrs. Rickshaw was bent on having everyone, including the Wheaten terrier, pose portrait style.
“Jacob, you try,” Mrs. Rickshaw said.
The four-year-old patted his legs. “Bunny, come. Come on, girl. Come on, girl.”
It was a game now. The more they called, the more Bunny darted this way and that.
“I don’t know what’s going on with her,” Mrs. Rickshaw said. “She never does this.”
Lance checked his watch. Nine forty-five. They’d probably be done by now if they’d left Bunny home.
“Honey,” Mr. Rickshaw said, “we may have to put Bunny in the car and take the portrait without her.”
Lance turned a hopeful glance toward Mrs. Rickshaw.
“She won’t play like this forever,” Mrs. Rickshaw said. “She’ll calm down shortly.”
“Can’t you put her on a leash?” Lance asked.
“But that’ll take away the feel that she’s part of the family,” Mrs. Rickshaw said. “I don’t want her to look like an animal.”
Lance sighed to himself. “How about we put her on a leash and position her in the photo in such a way that it doesn’t look like she’s on a leash. In fact, if any portion of the leash shows up, I can erase it when I edit the photos.”
Mrs. Rickshaw’s eyes lit up. “I didn’t think of that. That’s perfect.”
They got Bunny on the leash and took several family shots in different poses. And Lance jumped in the car and headed to Dr. Contee’s office. Kendra was still there when he texted, and he was only ten minutes away. If he could hear a quick synopsis from the doctor, he’d take it.
But by the time he found parking and took the elevator to her office, Kendra was walking out of the office suite.
Lance groaned. “I can’t believe my morning got hijacked by a terrier named Bunny, and I missed the meeting.” He searched her face for clues. “Well . . . what did Dr. Contee say?”
“The surgeon was there too.” Kendra moved to the side of the hall. “That’s one of the reasons why the appointment time changed, so he could be there. And they’d spoken with the radiologist as well.”
He couldn’t read her.
“The cancer is still in several spots in my breast,” Kendra said. “There’s some enhancement in the breast, lymph node enlargement. But there’s no indication that the cancer is bigger or worse, and it’s away from the chest wall. So it’s operable.”
“That’s what we wanted to hear, right?”
Kendra nodded. “And they also said”—she looked confused, like it didn’t make sense—“that they don’t see evidence of cancer in my neck.”
Lance pulled her closer. “Say that again.”
“They used that term ‘NED’—no evidence of disease—regarding the cancer in my neck, because of the chemo.”
Lance wanted to pick her up and twirl her around. “Sweetheart, that’s an answer to prayer! No evidence of cancer in your neck, plus your breast is operable, so that cancer will be removed.” He paused. “Why aren’t you more excited?”
“I’ve read so much about this disease,” Kendra said. “We don’t know what’s around the corner.”
“Can we take a moment to praise God for what’s at this corner?” Lance said. “You don’t know how relieved I am.”
“Mr. Alexander, you weren’t imagining the worst, were you?”
“Um, not the worst, just a sort of nightmarish . . . Okay, yeah.” He took her hand and led her to the elevator. “We need a mini-celebration. I say we do something to celebrate every bit of good news we get as thanks to God, even if it’s just stopping for a bakery treat.”
Kendra smiled at him as they awaited the elevator. “I think we can do better than a bakery stop.”
Lance waited, hopeful.
“They scheduled surgery for mid-November,” Kendra said. “I was thinking in about two weeks, when I’m feeling better from the last chemo, maybe we could take that trip I talked about.”
They hopped on the elevator.
“You think you’d be up for a long road trip?” he asked. “I don’t know . . .”
“I can pack my pillow and sleep in the car,” Kendra said. “What does it matter if I have pain spasms at home or on the road? I want to do this.”
The elevator opened, and they walked off.
“It could be our real honeymoon,” Kendra said.
Lance stared after her. “Who takes a honeymoon to the federal pen?”