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...