One of us has a plastic tube snaking down his leg, encased in a bandage from knee to ankle. He's in town to get rid of his bladder cancer and kidney blockage. He looks fit and says he's feeling fine.
Another walks in supported by his cane and his wife, and quietly sits in the booth, re-adjusting to the world.
Our host orders a hamburger (make it medium-rare) with a side of fries and a bottle of root beer.
"I tried being a vegetarian for a week," she says. "I found myself looking for pieces of meat buried under anything."
Still, she wants to pretend she's eating wholesome.
"Do you have whole wheat rolls?" she asks the waitress.
"You're too far down the road," I say. "Go for it."
What the hell, she agrees. White is fine.
I order two wraps to go, one for me, one for Rich. An hour ago we arrived from the hospital, back at Miracle House, my home in New York for the past week. Rich can't walk the two blocks, yet, but it's a wonder that he survived this most recent war on his body and, well...looks normal.
This meal is free, provided by donations. What we have in common, at this table, is serious surgery (liposuction gets no points here) or loving those who are being treated. Our host is a Miracle House volunteer, setting a tone of kindness combined with laughter. Lots of laughter amid "isn't this a small world..." exclamations.
Strangers, but we discover we know the same people, went to the same schools, or once lived within a few blocks of one another.
What makes us laugh, though, is something deeper. We're all facing something incomprehensible, terrifying, sad -- but underneath it all we've found the buried piece of meat that we're craving.
What the hell. Why settle for a morsel, here or there?
We're too far down the road.
We're going for it.
Candace
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