The Short Story

I took my mom to a doctor's appointment the other day; it was a pre-op physical. She's going to have a mastectomy on Monday. The lumpectomy she had in July is no longer considered adequate, since she could only weather half the prescribed chemotherapy. Needless to say, it has been a rough ride these last six months, and we're all hopeful that this surgery will be the last detour before we finally get her on the road to recovery. 

It has been tough on all of us to watch Mom go through this, but my dad has borne the brunt of it. He and Mom started dating in high school back in 1957, so, to say they've been through a lot together is an understatement. They've gone through poverty and prosperity, births and deaths, and all the moments that make a life in between. This has been the hardest thing by far, for both of them. 

My dad is a voracious reader. We all joke about how when you open dresser drawers in their house, you find books instead of clothes. The bookshelves filled years ago, and Dad can't bear to part with his treasures. So, drawers get filled, tabletops disappear under piles of paperbacks, and stacks of books on the floor form makeshift mazes in a couple of little-used rooms. Dad loves to tell the story about the fact that he never even had a library card until he met Mom. She took him there on a date once and got him signed up. 

Dad loves to tell a lot of stories, in fact. He has an amazing memory for detail and a gift for bringing memories of times gone by to life. I am blessed to have a vivid picture of my parents and the parts of their lives that pre-date me thanks to my dad and his lifetime of storytelling. 

After Mom and I got back to their house after her appointment, Dad arrived with a couple bags from Leeann Chin. I stopped in my tracks as I noticed him taking fistfuls of fortune cookies out of one of the bags. He had at least three dozen cookies there on the table and could tell by the look on my face that I was perplexed. 

"Oh, when your mom's not feeling well, the only thing she can stomach are these fortune cookies, so I buy a bunch for her a couple times a week. The employees always laugh and go get more from the back room when I walk in the door. Tonight, I wiped them out completely."

He said it so matter-of-factly, as if he, the master storyteller, wasn't even aware of the fact that he'd just told me this beautiful little story about Mom, and him, and their relationship, and what it means love each other through sickness and in health. He'd just summed up their whole life together in about three sentences.

Mom just gave a simple nod from her place at the table. 

I nodded too.