When Life Threw Me A Curve Ball, My Girlfriends Came With Their Mitts

My husband had a tumor the size of a baseball on the top of his head

What my husband told me when I was eight and half months pregnant almost caused me to give birth on the sticky vinyl seat in our favorite Chinese restaurant. With the fortune cookie crushed between my fingers, I leaned forward and threw his words back to him in question form.

“You’re getting laid off? And you didn’t have a clue?”

He nodded. “It’s a good time to start my business, don’t you think?”

A good time? Didn’t he know we were about to have a baby? Who at that very moment was doing somersaults in rhythm with my heart beats.

“Well?” He shrugged.

And as his shoulder’s dropped, so did my dream of being a stay at home mom. After all, one of us had to bring in a steady income.

Trying to remain calm, I cracked open my cookie and pulled out the fortune.

The light at the end of the tunnel may be an oncoming train.

WTF? Was this for real?

Well, the reality was — my future may have just taken a U turn, but I’d be damned if it was going to get run over.

I reached across the table, took my husband’s hand (who by now had saucer sized tears running down his face) and promised him that everything was going to be okay.

And then I turned to the people who knew me best: my circle of girlfriends.

By this time in our lives, our early thirties, I’d known most of them for over fifteen years. Even though they were all dealing with issues of their own — new babies, sore nipples, pre-school decisions, infertility — they listened to my problem. We talked. We walked. We drank cheap wine. We cried and laughed.

And time went by.

Fast forward ten years.

Once again, I sat across from my husband in our Chinese restaurant. After several moments of awkward silence, he leaned forward and announced that my sixteen-year-old stepson was leaving us to live with his mother.

“I didn’t even know he was thinking of doing this,” my husband said, burying his head in his hands.

He couldn’t be that clueless, could he? Not if he actually knew his son. Or life, for that matter.

Isn’t it always greener on the other side of the street? That is until you get there and smell the same old fertilizer.

I reached across the table, took his hand and promised him we’d get through this. It would all turn out okay.

And then I turned to those who knew me best: my circle of girlfriends.

By this time, we were in our late forties. Gone were the diapers, midnight feedings and those horrible Mommy and Me classes where everyone pretended to be having a great time, but couldn’t wait for it to end. Now we dealt with teenage aliens, divorces, aging parents and financial gurus promising to make us fortunes by the time we reached the half century mark.

But, as always, my girlfriends took time to listen to my story and work me through the situation.

We talked and walked. We drank cosmopolitans. We cried. We laughed.

And time went by.

Until, just a few years ago, when my husband told me something which changed our lives forever.

He was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Not a small one, mind you. But one that was sticking out the top of his head, like a golf ball.

I stared at him incredulously. How could he not know something that large was growing on his body? Didn’t he have a clue? As women, we’re always checking ourselves, feeling for lumps and bumps. Any little unwanted protrusion and we’re off to the doctor to have it examined.

I felt guilty for not noticing it myself. But, really, how often do you rub the top of your husband’s head?

We were still having sex. But after thirty-four years of marriage, it was more of the relaxed kind than the “rail-grabbing, hanging off-the-bedside, hair-pulling” type of our early years together.

To be truly honest, sometimes, I looked at the clock, wondering if we’d be done before The Voice started. Or I would make lists of things that needed to get done around the house.

So, after the initial shock, we faced the situation head on. Together. And I mean, together.

I became the designated driver. He became the “pain in the neck” passenger.

He went through the eight-hour surgery, unaware of anything. I went through it, aware of everything. The skid marks on the hospital floor. The buzzing of the overhead lights. The chipped nail on my left thumb.

After his surgery, we spent four lovely nights together in the ICU. By night number three, I almost figured out how to climb onto my folding recliner without getting my foot caught between the cushions. The casino sounding beeps and dings emanating from the nurse’s station became the soundtrack for my dreams.

The cafeteria guy snuck me a cup of coffee each morning. I snuck sips of vodka from a flask each night.

I held my breath every hour when the nurse would come to check my husband’s vitals. Knowing it was vitally important for him to get out of the hospital before we killed each other with so much togetherness.

And through it all, I turned to that safe space: my circle of girlfriends.

Now in the second half of our lives, with grandchildren, aging parents, and retirement doubts, we walked and talked and met for quiet dinners, drinking extra cold, extra-dry martinis.

As always, I couldn’t have gotten through this without them. They were the super glue which held me together.

Several weeks ago, now on the other side of the tumor, my husband I went to our Chinese restaurant.

This time when I opened up my fortune cookie, I found it empty.

“Well, I guess I don’t have a future,” I said, holding my hands in the air.

“Not so.” My husband set his cookie on the table between us, grabbed my hand and pressed it up against his heart. “You can share mine. Besides, isn’t that what we’ve been doing all along?”

I guess he is not so clueless, after all.

Thanks for reading.

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