Another thing I’ve spirited from my mom’s possessions is her blue cruiser bike. My dad tunes it all up for me, and it fits me really nicely, unlike her Tevas.
With the chemo, I’m back on the steroids. Before the kids get home from school, I fly down the hill on Mendenhall Street all wild and nonbraking. I zip along the greenway, bugs flying into my mouth, and realize I am both laughing out loud and completely out of breath.
On the way home, I have to walk the bike up the Mendenhall hill. I pass a neighbor walking his dog who stares blankly at me and my heart-attack face after I say, “Hey! How are you?” until I gulp, “Nina! The green house with the red door! Breast cancer!” Why do I say that last part?
It registers. “Oh hi,” he says, “Are you okay?”
First of all—Ha. Yes. Totally.
Second of all, I do not know. I wish there was someone else we could ask.