Finally. A comprehensible sentence. A complete thought. An ability to stand without tipping over. Oh, yeah baby, it’s day six!

Last Friday, Mary and I strode into the hospital fully prepared for either a 7.0 earthquake or an adult daycare outing to the zoo. We had a canvas tote, a messenger bag, a backpack, and a large Playmate cooler. Among our stockpile was People Magazine, cubed watermelon, lemon drops, flushable wipes, goldfish crackers, homeopathic remedies and a four-pack of ginger beer, which turned out to be my saving grace.

After being told the chemo package would take two-to-three hours, we were nonplussed when it took six. Who cares when you have an endless supply of artificial tears and free Wi-Fi? My “power port” was everything I wanted and more. The company’s 3-D, four-color brochure hadn’t lied. (Like plugging in a toaster.)

The drive home felt almost giddy. Me in my steroidal glow and Mary in the blush of her denial. A pink-ribbon miracle maybe? Perhaps. Not. No matter. During that 60-minute blur through Indiana farmland, we almost believed we’d gotten away with something.