Part Three - Good Time Charlie

                                                                                

We are curbside, car idling. We are early. Abbey, my sweet Cavalier, hangs halfway out the front, passenger side window, wagging her tail at everyone who walks by. "That's not him, that's not him," I say, convinced she has no idea why we are here.

She knows exactly why we are here. We are waiting for the man who throws the ball, inside the house, over and over again. The man who gets down on the floor and crawls under the furniture to retrieve her ball. The man, who I suspect, gives her a sampling of our food when I'm not looking. She knows exactly why we are here. We are waiting for HER man to arrive.

She sees him first. He greets her first and I'm jealous. 

The next four days move quickly. Before, we set the pace. Before, we were able to slow time down enough to fit our needs. Our mornings in bed lingered. Our nights stretched from moonlight til dawn. 

Before, we were social. He met people who were important to me. Before, we cooked - he the chef, me his sous-chef. This time, I don't remember what we ate. 

Midway through his stay we take Abbey for a hike at a nature preserve and get lost. I blame the boy scouts for poor trail marking. He blames our sense of direction. Abbey doesn't care which way we go.  She is in woodlands full of fresh scents. She is with her man. 

We don't talk about cancer, or treatment, or doctors, or tests. I don't tell him how I met with my accountant and lawyer. How I am trying to transfer my security license to my daughter. I don't tell him about the playlist and photo album I made in preparation for my funeral. I don't tell him how I won't buy another jar of expensive face cream - how I'm using up all the old, expired bottles. I don't tell him how frightened I am. 

And just like that, we are curbside again. His bright blue luggage is by his side. Abbey hangs halfway out the front passenger side window and I stand curbside, arms wrapped around him. Our gaze is locked. 

An elderly woman in a wheelchair is ushered towards us. The soft locks of her silver-gray hair bounce in the breeze.  In unison, we step aside to make room for her to pass and she cackles, "Hope your wife doesn't find out." 

He stiffens. I drop my arms and step back.

How does she know?

The following day I am curbside again, this time headed to New Orleans. Robin is flying in from Philadelphia and Jeanie from California. Together, with my cousin Janie, who resides in New Orleans, we plan a party in the French Quarter. We will be silly and sassy - eat rich, spicy food, and drink tequila and absinthe. 

On the plane, a distinguished-looking man sits beside me - greeting me with a smile. We strike up a conversation and somewhere over Atlanta, he asks for my number. I tell him I'm seeing someone. "That does not deter me," he says. "I have cancer," I say. He responds the same way. We exchange numbers with the intention of meeting up for dinner when I return. 

Airport Man is married, I remind myself. And I am running out of time.

I don't know the type of sarcoma I have - the biopsy is not ample enough to determine this - and I won't know if it's spread until I have a PET scan, but I do know this is not curable. I want to live as big as I can until I can't. I cough with the fear that the cancer has spread to my lungs. I lift my arms to ease the heat from under them, convinced the cancer has spread to my lymph nodes. A friend, who is a medical professional, explains palliative care. 

We work our way down Bourbon Street, to Lafitee's Blacksmith House - the oldest bar in the country. I am seated in an open window when a tall man with white, flowing hair walks by. "Now there is a woman I'd like to get to know," he says to his friend and points at me. "Then ask for my number," I say. I'm bolder now that I have cancer again. I'm not used to this much male attention and wonder if cancer has a pheromone. 

On a napkin, Janie writes lyrics to what will certainly be a hit song...

4.27.2023 Shannon, Robin, Jeanie & Me

ABBY

She stumbled down the hallway of my mind.

Hips swaying from side to side. 

She's all hair

All boops and all hips

And she doesn't believe she is beautiful... 

We hang a hard left out of Lafitee's, then a right down Royal Street to FiFi Mahony's - a fabulous wig boutique. I've had enough tequila to make the mint green, whimsical wig with horns work but instead, settle on a playful, strawberry blonde wispy bob and dress it up a bit.

I text my daughter a picture of me in my new wig. "You've been wearing the same shirt for 3 days," she says. "Are you alright?"

The young woman who was once obsessed with her split ends is now hyper-focused on me. She is my primary caregiver, my emergency contact, and my main reason to live.

Later that evening, Charlie sends a text asking if we can get together for dinner.

"Remind me what you look like," I ask. 

He sends a picture. It's an artsy, black-and-white professional headshot. Serial dater, I think. "Handsome," I text.

I agree to meet him for a nightcap. "I'm incognito," I tell him. "I'd spot you anywhere," he says - not knowing I'm wearing a wig. 

We meet at a courtyard in the French Quarter by a flaming fountain. He tells me he has a gift for me and hands me a penny. "It's a lucky penny," he tells me. "I found it today, then dropped it. It rolled under a table but I got it back for you."

Charlie doesn't know that I have cancer and that good luck is exactly what I need. Charlie doesn't know that pennies are all about my son, Kerry - his way of letting me know that he is near. Charlie doesn't understand the coincidence of today's date - the 27th  - and how 27's are all about Kerry. 

I sit on his lap and run my fingers through his hair. It is soft and sexy. After several cocktails, he walks me back to my hotel and we make plans to meet up at the Jazz Fest the following day. He is polite. I am prudent.

At the Jazz Fest, my crew intertwines with his crew - we are three, they are two. He towers over me, beside me, beneath me - on the lawn he is my chair, in the blaze of the sun he is my shade. He never leaves my side.

There is so much I like about Charlie. His mind clicks fast and his moves are steady. He is a welcome distraction from my angst.

And Airport Man is married. And I am running out of time. 

"Meet me after dinner?" he asks the following day.

"Reserve a suite at the Hotel Monteleone, " I boldly say. "Bring something for me to wear and champagne."

Charlie doesn't know that my torso is carved up more than a Thanksgiving turkey, that my breasts are reconstructed and have no sensation, that my nipples are masterly molded from pig cadaver skin (or human, I can't remember), that I have a chemo port scar off-set by the long stretch of a melanoma scar, that what looks like areolas are faded, 3D tattoos, that my upper inner thigh has an impressive wound from a dog attack, that I am on my third bellybutton and have no rectum, that I had 18 inches of my large intestines removed - the rest are sandwiched together with mesh. And that I am shy.

He stands proudly in the center of the lobby, poised below two massive chandeliers and overshadowing a grand, grandfather clock. He is cradling a bottle of Crytal. There is a small backpack at his feet and I have no luggage. We greet each other ardently before heading to the elevator. "Our suite is newly renovated," he tells me.

We enter the elevator - a warm belly of mahogany with well-polished marble floors and brass, art deco fixtures. He presses the button for the 15th floor but the doors only close halfway. And then open. And then close. And then open again.

"The hotel is haunted," I say. 

The 14th floor, (really the 13th floor), is known for being haunted. During the late 1800s, the Begere family - regular guests at the Hotel Monteleone - were attending the opera when their toddler son passed away from a fever while in his Nanny's care. Throughout the years guests have reported seeing a friendly ghost on the 14th floor - the same floor that the International Society for Paranormal Research determined to be a hotbed of paranormal activity. 

"But we are on the 15th floor," I tell him. "We will be fine."

To be continued ...

Part Two - Blue Suitcase

As Airport Man begins his journey home, I begin a journey of my own.                                                        

I book an appointment with a local orthopedic and after examing the small lump on my left, upper arm - just below my shoulder - he orders an MRI. Two days later the MRI shows two masses. One is labeled a "benign or malignant mesenchymal tumor," and the other a benign vascular tumor. Tissue sampling is recommended and an excisional biopsy is scheduled at my local hospital the following week.

A PET scan is also ordered. During a PET scan (positron emission tomography), radioactive glucose is injected into a vein. Because cancer cells take up more glucose than normal cells, a scanner is used to take pictures of areas where glucose is absorbed - highlighting cancer cells in the body. 

In between all this, I continue my connection with Airport Man, determined not to discuss anything about my health concerns. But there is more in play than just another cancer scare. After listening to my angst around dating again, a friend recommends I read the New York Times bestselling book, Attached - the science behind adult attachment. The book breaks it down into three categories - anxious, avoidant, and secure. I devour the chapters dedicated to anxious attachment, and for the first time in my adult life, realize I am not "boy crazy," obsessed, or insecure,  I am simply acting out patterns I learned as a child. 

During one of our many lengthy conversations, I confess my new self-awareness to Airport Man and everything about "us" feels lighter. I also have a skill set to work from and recognize my heightened anxiety before I react. Previously, I would often end a relationship the minute I felt I was losing control.  

When I finally find the courage to confess my health concerns,  Airport Man states with the perfect balance of empathy and conviction, "Try not to worry, we are in this together."

We.

"We" are strangers who met a month ago and have spent only four whimsical days enamored with the nuances of each other. 

Airport Man likes to read an actual newspaper and do crossword puzzles. I am obsessed with Tiktok. He likes socks. Socks are practical and fashionable. He has a large collection of socks. I like to mix colors together when getting a pedicure. His speech is reserved and proper. I am boisterous and outspoken. He keeps his personal life private. I live mine out loud. Music is important to Airport Man. This is where we click. And cooking. He likes to cook. We cook well together. He prides himself on being the fittest man in the room. He is by far the fittest man I have ever had the pleasure of undressing. His hair is thick. His rich, olive skin is tan - highlighted by my fair complexion. Our differences are vast but what draws me in is so subtle. His scent. His laugh. The touch of his hand. The stride of his step. He pauses before he speaks and he means what he says. And when he pulls me close, then tenderly bites my bottom lip, I am sweetened and electrified.

The morning of the procedure, Airport Man wishes me well. 

During the biopsy, I am given a mild dose of sedation known as twilight anesthesia and am surprised to hear the thump and feel the pressure of 5 punctures. The radiologist's nurse explained that I would have an excisional biopsy - which removes the entire mass. Instead, I am given a core needle biopsy, where a hollow needle removes only samples of the tumor.

After the biopsy, I text Airport Man, 

All done. about to be discharged.

How are you feeling? he asks.

Ok...sleepy. mild pain.

And then Airport Man goes silent. From the beginning, we develop a pattern of texting each other goodnight and good morning. Both my good morning and goodnight texts go unanswered, It is almost 48 hours before I hear from him again. 

This is incredibly triggering. At first, I worry he is dead, then I worry it was too much for him, then I worry how to respond. Everything I learned in the book, Attached, goes out the window. 

In a late-night call, with the courage of a well-poured glass of wine, I tell him how his lack of contact after my biopsy triggers me. He is compassionate and apologetic. I am confused.

I discuss the situation with anyone who will listen. No one has a logical explanation for his disconnect. My daughter tells me to stop relying on him and reminds me that I don't even know him.

The day before my PET scan appointment, the oncologist's office calls to tell me my insurance denied the scan and when I push for more information the nurse unwillingly tells me I have cancer. 

I have cancer. AGAIN. 

I march straight to the hospital records department and obtain a copy of my biopsy report. To my disbelief, it reads, sarcomatoid malignant neoplasm. By definition, sarcomatoid carcinoma is a rare, aggressive cancer that spreads fast and is difficult to treat.

For those of you not keeping score, this is my 7th primary cancer. Primary means each cancer is its own, not one cancer that has spread to other parts of my body. In order, I have been diagnosed with melanoma (left side of upper back), breast cancer (right), breast cancer (left), melanoma (left side of lower neck), rectal cancer, (low-level tumor) melanoma (left side of chest), and now, a soft tissue sarcoma. Soft tissue includes muscle, fat, blood vessels, nerves, tendons, and the lining of the joints.

With pathology in hand, I begin the laboring task of shopping out my cancer. As bizarre as this sounds, when dealing with cancer, especially something as rare as a sarcoma, you have to find the best of the best and you have to find them fast. Until I have a plan in place, knowing where and what treatment will take place, I am consumed with fear. Simple tasks are laboring and focusing on anything other than cancer is impossible. 

I research soft tissue sarcoma specialists and reach out to Johns Hopkins, Dana Farber, Memorial Sloan-Kettering and Mayo Clinic. I schedule a PET scan at Johns Hopkins. It is a hospital I trust and know well. This is where I received cutting-edge treatment for my rectal cancer. I also schedule a meeting with a sarcoma surgeon at Memorial Sloan-Kettering. 

Before either of these appointments, I have a scheduled trip to New Orleans to attend the first week of Jazz Festival with my must-haves, the women I cling to in times of sorrow or joy.  

Days before I leave for NOLA, Airport Man arrives for our second playdate. This time he arrives knowing I have cancer, again.

**********

Part One - Hello, My Name Is Shannon and I Have Cancer

                                                                    PART ONE

Hello, my name is Shannon and I have cancer, again.

*******

I am convinced the uncanny events that wiggle their way into my life happen so I have something scandalous to write about. This is one of those situations.

I am in Austin, Texas, visiting a close-knit circle of friends - the type of friends where the answer to how are you, is never a one-word answer. We dive deep and we see through all the bullshit.

Before returning home, I linger solo in Austin. There are two events I want to attend - an oyster festival and a vampire festival.

The oyster festival is much smaller than I envisioned. It is held in downtown Austin's, Republic Square - which for practical purposes, is fenced in. This makes me feel like I am in an adult playpen. At each corner, just outside the playpen, are anti-abortion demonstrators packing plastic embryos, graphic signs, and shouting conflict-provoking propaganda.  

There is one stage for music which is mostly unoccupied. The crowd is primarily couples - couples holding hands, couples sharing oysters, couples standing in long lines drenched in the glory of mid-day sun. I stay for less than an hour, find refuge at a neighboring rooftop restaurant and have a late lunch of lollipop lambchops and chardonnay before heading back to my hotel. 

In contrast, the vampire festival is more than I bargained for. The attendees are not just dressed to impress the costume culture, they appear to have an awakened affinity to blood.  A thick, deep red elixir flows from carafes, caldrons, and goblets and no one wipes their mouth.

I arrive cloaked in a past-my-prime, bellowing floral shirt and too-tight, straight-legged white jeans, making it visibly impossible for me to blend in.  I leave 15 minutes into the garlic-eating competition where willing contestants are chained to the wall.

After two days and two festivals, I am ready for Dorothy to ruby-slipper me home. I leave my hotel early and head to the airport. I check my luggage with ease but when I get to the security gates I am told my ticket does not match my identification and am curtly sent back to the starting line to "reconfirm" my identity. My second attempt also fails but when I returned for a third time with a Delta manager, I am given the green light. When I question what caused the confusion I am told, "These ticket scanners are tricky." 

I seek refuge at the Delta Skyclub lounge to unwind amongst frequent flyers.

My first stop is the buffet where I help myself to a generous amount of short ribs, butter biscuits, and mac and cheese served on a ceramic plate with stainless steel utensils. It tastes like home but without the guilt, because I am, after all, still on vacation. I am perfectly content consuming calories and watching planes take off until an "urgent announcement" comes over the PA system warning everyone to stay in place until further instructions are given. I have never heard a warning like this in an airport or anywhere for that matter. I immediately abandon my meal and rush to the only safe place I know - the bar. 

It is early afternoon and the bar is more than half empty, so it is easy to catch the bartender's attention. "I think the announcement is about me," I state as I mount a worn, leather barstool. "I was at a vampire convention yesterday and maybe I lost my reflection." This bizarre statement catches the attention of more than just the bartender and by the time I take my first sip of wine, a handsome gentleman who is within earshot approaches and politely asks if he can occupy the seat beside me. We ramble on for 20 or 30 minutes, he sipping his blood-red cabernet and me, lost in his smile. 

He talks about what he does for a living while I focus on his casual confidence - how the collar of his shirt hugs his neck, the curve of his lips, and the dance of his hands.  After establishing that we live more than 13000 miles apart, we exchanged numbers. The backdrop of an airport makes our distance feel closer - staying in touch feels doable. When it is time for me to board my plane, I hop off my barstool resisting an all-consuming urge to wrap my arms around him and kiss him goodbye. 

We text and talk for the next few weeks until we settle on a date for him to visit. I inform him that sex is off the table and that he would need to find a place to stay. To my surprise, this does not deter him. Our texts are polite and formal, but our conversations are warm, insightful, and effortless. During one of these conversations, I learn that he is married with two adult children. He explains that the divorce is pending and that they have been living apart for 4 years - he in the home where they raised their children, and she in a different state.

As much as I try to justify our attraction, his marriage clouds everything. I have never knowingly dated a married man, and I'm not the type of woman who settles on second place. I put my P.I. cap on and confirm their living situation and the timeline he presented to me. I also uncover enough about his wife that I believe she loves him, still. 

I am late to pick him up at the airport. It is a small airport so he should be easy to spot, but it has been a month since I sat next to him on an airport bar stool. I am taken by surprise when he texts me curbside details that include the color of his luggage, his attire, and his height.

"I'm wearing a black coat, black shirt and black jeans (mysterious, sexy). And my luggage is bright blue (only navy will do) and I'm 5'5" (remembering only that our gaze was on the same, level plane) 

While en route, I urgently call my daughter. "Bright blue luggage," I tell her, "He has bright blue luggage. Do you think he might be gay?" I question. 

She assures me that nothing about bright blue luggage suggests gay. 

"He's short," I add. 

"How short?" she asks. 

"5"5'" I tell her. 

"Does that bother you?" she questions. 

"No, it calms me." 

My son was 5"6'. My grandson is 5"6'. My third x-husband is 5"7'. I am 5"3'. I know short. I am comfortable with short. 

Our first stop is lunch at a downtown restaurant. We are once again, seated side by side at a bar. In the corner is an employee of mine, who, out of character, is highly intoxicated. Intoxicated Man interrogates Airport Man. Airport Man handles his inappropriate questioning and underlying hostility beautifully. I lean back and let him steer the conversation. This is not something I am used to. I typically hold my own. But Airport Man holds his own, and Intoxicated Man chugs his drink and leaves chewing the bottom layer of ice. 

From there, we go to the Airbnb Airport Man has booked. It is centrally located and less than 2 miles from my house. After several miscommunications with the owner, which include her giving the wrong address, we meet up with the homeowner who is frazzled and disheveled and the apartment mirrors her mental and physical state.

She apologizes for the mess and explains that construction is ongoing and they are moving.  She justifies the condition of the rental on her busy lifestyle and at the same time blames Airport Man for paying in advance and showing up. 

My turn to drive. I give Airport Man an all-knowing smile, and he nods in approval. I disarm her by offering to help her make his bed, reposition a few out-of-place items, and sympathize with her self-imposed stress.

We leave Airport Man's luggage on the freshly made bed and continue our day.  This is where I know, without question, he will never rest his head on this bed. He is resting beside me.

Everything about our time together is fun. Our long, thought-provoking conversations are fun. Cooking together is fun. Wandering the cool wind and sand of an almost spring beach is fun. Introducing him to my inner circle of family and friends is fun. Even sex is fun.

Towards the end of our visit, as we lie in bed and hold each other's gaze, he questions where we stand in the relationship and asks if I will see other men. I tell him something so corny, so ridiculous, that I cringe as the words leave my lips, "The odds of me getting another cancer are greater than me finding someone more entertaining." Then I add, "But there is this small lump on my arm." And I show him. 

To be continued...