My husband and I spent four years in treatment for prostate cancer. We dutifully stuck to the regiment of our “every three weeks” for this treatment and “every three months” for that treatment. Our household calendar took a prime position on our kitchen counter and those appointments, both in our town and in a major cancer treatment centre an hour away, took priority over everything else and everybody else in our lives. Jim’s life depended on this – and so it was.
For the first three years of this priority-changing evolution, he drove and we were comfortable in the waiting room, even though our waits would be long and boring. We would often be there for six to eight hours.
Trying to make the best of it, I would sometimes go to a nearby mall, my cell phone in hand, to look for this and that, all the time feeling like…
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