Nope.
Which is why Greta is gaping at me like I’m a zebra-striped baboon. “You hadcancer?”She sounds choked. Her eyes go round, too much of their whites showing.
I shrug. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
My dad snorts. “Right. Not a big deal.” He points to his head. “Just the reason I went gray overnight.”
Mom’s chin is lowered. “Zach,really,”she scolds. “Maybe skydiving and bungee jumping has made you immune to feelings of mortality, but you can’t say that chapter in our lives wasno big deal.”
Okay. She’s right. It was awful. Scary. Painful. A time in my life I try not to think about at all, but memories—and the heavy feelings—still catch me off guard in the least convenient times. When I’m stuck in traffic. When I’m under the weather and can’t do anything. And, toward the end, any time I was in the offices of Hartley, Merrimen, and Volkl.
When I was in treatment, it was like I could feel my life force spilling out of me. Not just because I was sick. But because I was stuck in a situation I couldn’t change. I was trapped in my bed. Trapped in my body. With absolutely no energy. And I wanted out.
I wanted to feelalive.
I wanted tolivewhile I was alive.
There were weeks on end during treatment when I felt like I merely existed. I decided then that when I got better, I would never merely exist. I’d live fully. Every damn day.
Undergrad at LSU was like burning rocket fuel 24/7. When I wasn’t crushing my classes, I was partying with my Sigma Chi brothers. The challenge and competition of law school felt like a hunt. Pulling all-nighters to stand out for my Harvard professors. Busting my ass to make law review. Hustling for the best internships in Boston. I felt alive because it was like a game I wanted to win.
It wasn't until the firm demanded everything and days started running together, looking exactly the same that I started to feel the way I had when I was sick.
I was low energy. I couldn’t focus. At first I thought it might have been a relapse of some kind. A blood test ruled that out. And it didn’t take long to figure out that this time, it wasn’t cancer that was trying to kill me. It was my job.
I roll my eyes at my parents. “Fine. It was a big deal.”
“How old were you?” The rasp in Greta’s voice catches me off guard. I turn to her and see she looks stricken. Like she just heard that Ihavecancer. Not that Ihadcancer.
“Seventeen.”
As soon as the word is out, her hand is on mine. Her fingers curl against my palm, clasping tight.
And, all at once, I’m back in the clearing. Because I didn’t imagine it.
She kissed me back.
She held me tight.
She meant it.
Oh my God.
Oh my God.
Our gaze’s lock. She still looks worried, pained.
But I’ve never felt better in my life.
I shift my hand so now I’m clasping back, our joined hands on my knee. I swallow hard at the rising emotion, and my voice is softer when I speak.
“It was a long time ago.”
“And you’re okay now?” Her voice is as small as it’s ever been.
I give her hand a squeeze. “I’m totally okay.” Life doesn’t give anyone guarantees, but I want to make that look in her eyes go away. “I still get screened every year, but I’ve been cancer-free for more than ten years.”
She blinks quickly. “I-I can’t believe you never told me this.” The words are barely audible, but they say so much.
