The Black Sea

I heard a little knock on the trailer door, early in the morning on the last day of school.
"Faba!"  I exclaimed, surprised to see him.  He hadn't been at school in days and I assumed he wasn't coming back.  
"My sister didn't know we still had school!"  he said shyly.
"I have your Bud, Not Buddy," continued, handing me the book.  
"Oh, Faba, I am going to miss you."  I responded.
"Maybe I'll be able to stop by."  he answered in his pretty Congolese accent, radiant teeth shining in the morning sun.  

I broke him out his ordinary classroom with the few kids I had that were still in the building.  They ate lunch in the trailer, played Scrabble and ate Starburst until the buses came.  I didn't break out Mashia; I'm not sure why.  I felt enormously guilty when I went to say goodbye to her and she would barely talk to me.  

The school year ended with a naked man walking through the the carpool/bus lane and an unceremonious, it's three o'clock, you can leave vibe.  I could hear teachers' tires squealing and saw a line of cars peeling out even before I could get the trailer locked.  

I tried to hit the ground running and spent days cleaning up our house and yard.  I wanted to get it out of the way, and Alec's mom was coming in to town.  She would be in Atlanta for a couple of days and then we would drive to Tybee Island for a few days at the beach.  I was really looking forward to it.  I haven't gone swimming in two years, principally because of COVID, and even driving to the Georgia coast was thrilling.  I selected a pet friendly, 1960s cinder block beach cottage right by a couple of my favorite beach access points.  

Lola really doesn't like rain.  Before, she would tolerate it while in the car, as long as we did not turn the windshield wipers on.  Now, even sprinkles on the windshield drives her into a nearly ninety pound frenzy of powerful dog.  Alec and I watched the weather like hawks, trying to anticipate the drive.  

We hit rain.  And road work.  A four hour drive turned into more than seven.  I was in the backseat, trying to hold Lola back from crashing forward and attacking the windshield.  She was terrified, barking, foaming at the mouth, her heart racing and her skin hot to the touch.   I wasn't mad at her, I felt terrible.  Alec's mom was in the front seat, tolerating this awful situation.  By the time we arrived, I was soaking wet from rain, had sworn and cried and had bruises all over every conceivable part of my body.  When we went to sleep in my little twin bed across from Alec's little twin bed, I hugged Lola very hard.  

I swam in the ocean the next day, floated on my back and looked at the sun.  

The day after we returned to Atlanta, Lola's vet called with results of a biopsy I requested during her annual well visit.
"It's malignant."

Malignant.  The thing you have been saying for years we should "just watch"?  The thing I got biopsied at a different vet and they said it was nothing?  The thing I had to push you to biopsy again?

"They can schedule her surgery for June 30th."  Alec told me.

"The main doctor says that she isn't concerned about another two and a half week wait." he continued.

"Yeah," I responded.

"Because she's never concerned about a whole lot of anything."

Alec nodded and started calling every vet in town to see who could get on this faster.  

We got an appointment at my mom's vet and they scheduled the surgery a week later, as well as a lymph node biopsy to see if the cancer had metastasized.  We watched the rain and panicked about getting her there and back, and worried about reports that the location of her tumor was a difficult place to operate.  My sister and I drove her for the appointment, on Alec's first day back to work after his vacation.  The sky stayed pretty clear.  

About an hour and half after dropping her off, my phone started ringing.

"She needs to see an oncologist.  I can't remove all of the tumor because of the location.  I want to call in a referral to a radio-oncologist, I'm texting you everything.  If it hasn't spread, there is a non-surgical option that will destroy the tumor.  It will take a lot of home care, it will be an open wound.  If it has spread, she'll need surgery and chemo and radiation.  I'm going to ask them if I can biopsy the lymph node and scan her lungs for tumors and do her blood work, if they will accept that.  Do I have your consent?"

"Yes."

"They are accepting my preparation and that will speed things along.  They have a cancelation for next week, call them as soon as we get off the phone.  It's on June 30th.  I am about to start the scans."

"When can I pick her up?"

"In an hour, I gave her a sedative so that I can X-ray her and biopsy her lymph node.  She's woozy.  We will have the results in twenty-four hours, but if I see anything big in the X-ray, I can tell you today."

That's all I've got.  That is really all that I've got.