Day 30.

Our visit at the cancer center yesterday went well. We were there for a short 3 hours and Willie's labs looked good.  He is starting to feel better after being on the antibiotic for C-Diff for the past few days.  We drove into the parking lot at the apartment at the same time a man was crossing the lot.  He waited for us to park and when Willie got out of the car wearing his large filter mask the man shouted to us.
"You made it out!" He said brightly.
Willie mumbled something back and the man came closer to hear him.
"It must feel good to be out of the hospital." He continued.
Willie nodded his head in agreement.
"Do you have family here." I asked, motioning to the apartment building.
"No, my wife is on day 6 after transplant.  I'm on my way to see her now."  He opened his trunk and tossed a Trader Joe's bag inside.  The car was completely empty and spotlessly clean; I assumed it was a rental.
"How is she doing?" I ask.
"It's rough, but she's plugging along."
We nod in agreement.  In my life before cancer I probably would have saturated this moment with a huge dose of sympathy, but I have learned from being on the other side that no one is looking for that treatment.
"She'll be out soon." Willie's voice was muffled through the mask, but the man nodded that he heard him. "I got out on day 15."
Our new friend slapped his forehead and leaned back like he'd been pushed.
"DAY 15!" He shouted emphatically "That's gotta be some kind of record or something."
We smiled and laughed in agreement.
"That seems too close to even consider for my wife, but that makes me feel better.  The doctors have never given us a day for when she could go home."
"They didn't give us a day either." I assured "Everything goes by the counts."
We all stood, nodding our heads for a moment in acknowledgement of the almighty blood counts that rule each of our worlds.
"What kind of cancer does your wife have?" I asked without shame. 
This is another thing that cancer has changed about me.  In the past I would have been curious, but never bold enough to ask about what kind of cancer someone had.  I would have asked round about questions to possibly identify the type without directly asking, as if the person would scream at me if I was direct. 
I'm not like that anymore. 
After walking through the drudgery that is cancer, I am no longer afraid to ask people about their diagnosis.  In general, people are eager to share and I have yet to have someone take offense or refuse to answer my inquiry.
"She has a rare form of T-Cell lymphoma." He reported.
Willie and I nodded.
"Is the transplant a cure for...."
"There is no known cure for her type of cancer." He interrupted my question "they say that transplant is the only possible way she may reach a potential remission. They're really vague, but I guess there is hope."
I held his eye contact as he stared back at us.  In the past I would have looked at the ground as I tried to come up with a response to his admission that his wife is receiving the last possible treatment to prolong her life. 
I'm not like that anymore either.
"There is ALWAYS hope." I said back to him emphatically.
We stood there staring at each other.  I wanted to shake him and scream that there is nothing but hope for his wife because if there is no hope for her, then there is no hope for any of us, and that's not something I'm willing to accept.
After a moment he slowly nodded his head.
"I guess there is." He motioned toward Willie.  "Look at this guy!"
We smiled then exchanged hand shakes and learned his name.  We wished his wife the best and he left saying he hopes to see us soon.
I hope we do too.
I hope for a lot of things.
But that's what keeps us going.

Hooray for hope!