He could die.  I know prostate cancer is treatable.  But our business is not simply an isolated family farm with minimal social networks.  We serve the public directly, and that service has put me in contact with many many families for decades.  I know a lot of folks who have been affected by cancer.  And I have known and adored a number of men who have lost their lives to prostate cancer.

I also know a lot, many more, who have survived.

But that’s not where my brain went this summer when we started negotiating the travails of the diagnosis.  

It just went to He Could Die.

And I am far from that stage of life.  I’m 48.  I would have to live without him. 

So while part of me fretted about Bob’s sexuality and basic bodily functions, and the treatment and recovery process, the other part of me wrestled with what life would look like without the companionship of the love of my life.

And that made me turn to my other loves.  

One of those loves is my business.  

Frying omelets, making coffee, baking croissants, selling meat, visiting with customers and watching a community pulse with love and joy outside my cafe kitchen are moments when I am truly alive.  I walk into my cafe kitchen in the pre-dawn hours on a Saturday morning, and it is my church.  I  feel called there by the spirit of the universe.

And in those moments, I am most fully myself, truly and completely Shannon, alive and present.  I feel like I can be happy there, even through the pain and sorrow that life will inevitably throw at me. 

So when the unfolding of Bob’s illness pointed to treatment in New York City, I fixated on how I could keep all this going in his absence:  when I would mix the doughs, prep the stews, manage the books, keep up with the household chores and homeschooling and then fill in for his share of the work.  I informed Bob I would visit him in the city once or twice, but warned him that I could not endure more than that.  We both know I’m no city girl.  And I assured everyone that Sap Bush Hollow operations would continue as usual.  I needed to know that I could hold it all together because…because…he could die.  So I behaved as though there was a major long-term emergency to attend to, making lists, sleeping lightly, crying often, moving frantically.

And Bob packed his bag and moved down.  

A few days later I went down to visit.  

And I found myself cooking us supper in our apartment, and holding his hand while exploring the streets of Harlem, lower Manhattan, the Village.  I stood mesmerized by the titmice in the rambles of Central Park as they flew at my face, on a quest for seed.  

And still I cried.  But I cried because I was happy.  And so very very confused.  

If the cafe and business are my identity, and my source of happiness, how could I turn my back on them?  Aren’t these the things that should pull me through?

But each afternoon after his treatments, as we learned to navigate the subways and ambled through museums and tried cappuccinos at a different cafe each day, I recognized the obvious.

He’s not dead.

He’s very much here.  

And I can love many things in this life.  They can come and go, and my love will remain true.

In the meantime, there is this amazing city to behold, with its beautiful people and their stunning displays of creativity and joy.  

So we make a decision.  We close the cafe for the season.  Our time at home each weekend is for focusing exclusively on our kids.  I decide to do the minimum to keep the business running, then leave my family and employees to handle the rest. I join Bob here in the city.  I work while he goes to radiation in the morning, then we spend the afternoons on daily adventures.

While passing through the subway stop at Times Square this week, we see a man gyrating to a vallenado with a skeleton: dipping, turning, taking joy in the music.  We stop and watch.  He cavorts with death, reminding me that we are all doing the same dance.  It is scary, sensual and beautiful all at once. 

The next day, we are in the mayhem of the streets of Manhattan…Harried pedestrians crowd into a crosswalk before the light has changed.  We are carried along by the mob as a large truck approaches the intersection.  It is his right of way, but the impatience of the pedestrians robs him of his chance to clear it safely.  Bob makes it to the other side, but I am stuck in middle of the street.  

The truck gently brakes. The driver gives a toss of his dreadlocks and a shrug of his shoulders as he comes to a stop a few feet from me, causing horns to erupt in every direction.  He smiles peacefully.  I watch him in awe. He could have been angry.  He could be stressed.  He could be frightened.  Instead, he accepts where he is and, like me, opts to simply watch the scene with a smile.  He fills me with so much joy, I stand there, silly upstate woman with her bulky Elmer Fudd hat and hiking boots and wool gloves, waving wildly at the trucker, smiling and laughing with him.  He meets my gaze, laughs, waves back.

And that is our world right now.  A dance with death, maybe.  But a dance with life, too…Every moment something to see and treasure.  Yes, I may be alone some day.  And I trust that my business will still be there for me to love and attend to.  But in the meantime, I wouldn’t miss this for all the world. 

https://youtube.com/shorts/q7-QtVJ-kwE