It Was Written in the Stars

Tomorrow morning I will wake up before the alarm, and when I reach under the covers, my hand will squeeze the soft curve of my husband’s warm tush.

He will give a quiet moan reserved only for me.

My body will feel loose, the muscles and bones rejuvenated after a deep and restful night of sleep.

Wilson will poke his face through the door, nudging it open with his long black nose, thwacking his tail against the wall as he comes up to greet me.

Moxie will run into the room in her birthday suit, all tangled hair, and will shout, “Good Morning!” in her wide, toothless grin.

We will all get up and make a smooth entrance into our day.

The espresso shots will pull perfectly, the toast will not burn, the butter and jam will be fresh. I will drop Moxie off at preschool.

She will kiss me goodbye and remind me that she loves me more than anyone.

Then, I will drive to the hospital for my CT scan.

After checking in and signing forms, I will sit in my car and drink the mysterious fluid that lights up disease.

While I wait the requisite two hours for it to coat my organs, I’ll post something witty and inspiring on social media. Maybe I’ll hit up Trader Joe’s.

The tech will walk me back to the room with the white donut machine.

I’ll lie down on the table for my full-service X-ray.

The IV will go in.

The contrast will be injected.

I will feel as though I’ve wet my pants, and I will remember the first time I felt that sensation last year before chemo started.

Later in the day, I will get a “New Test Result” message from MyChart,

And when I open the results of the scan, everything will be normal and clear.

And I will receive confirmation of something I already know to be true.

The cancer is gone, and it isn’t coming back.

It is written in the stars.