Sure, he was sitting there innocently enough, but it wasn't going to save him. Out of the corner of my eye, I had caught a glimpse of him perched precariously atop the Sunday edition of The Charlotte Observer lying on the floor. I was running a bubble bath in hopes of providing some relief to my flu-ravaged muscles. My husband had taken our daughter to gymnastics, and I had the house all to myself. At least, I thought did, until I saw him trying not to appear conspicuous - hoping I would get into my nice hot bubble bath, while he scampered off into the dark recesses of my walk-in closet or behind my bed, or even worse, between my sheets!

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"We have your CT results." Annie's Southern voice bubbled with an excitement befitting of even the most miraculous cranium.

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         I gasped to breathe. I couldn't sit up without excruciating pain, feeling as if someone was sitting on my chest. Fire emanated from the alien pod invading my body. A port-a-cath had been surgically implanted in my chest yesterday. The device was going to provide access to one of my central veins, making receiving my intravenous immunoglobulin (IVIG) infusions easier. This port was my only chance of continuing my infusion therapy and stopping the progression of the rare neurological disease, Chronic Inflammatory Demyelinating Polyneuropathy (CIDP), with which I had the misfortune of being diagnosed six months before.

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“Call me, you cowardly bitch!” I screamed at my husband’s mistress. This was the sixth time in the last fifteen minutes that I had obsessively left Jennifer a voicemail. Fred had told me it was all over, that he wanted to try to make our marriage work. But then I found the poem casually lying on his desk. He missed her, loved her, and wanted not to want her. My passive aggressive husband knew I would find it. Predictably, he had taken the easy way out. He and Jennifer deserved each other.

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     The stained glass heart broke into slivers and chunks, as I laughed with delight, witnessing the jagged spray of bright red.  The words, “Yours Forever,” were now just a series of nonsensical lines. The heart had been a Valentine’s Day gift from my soon-to-be ex-husband. I had proudly placed it in the kitchen window and often meditated on it while washing the dishes. As the sunlight poured into our tiny eight hundred square foot home, the heart had seemed to ignite, illuminating the words of the man I had adored. Now the cherished memento of our love lay crushed at my feet. I rejoiced at the thought of Fred having to get down on his hands and knees to collect even the most miniscule shard.

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It was my 35th birthday, the worst birthday of my life. I stood, wedged between the wall and exam table at the oncologist’s office. My left hand had gone numb from my husband’s grip. I stared down at his giant hand, my diminutive one now lost in the flesh that used to be my sanctuary.

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     I rushed through styling my four year old daughter’s pigtails. Her typically perfect hair would just have to be a bit messy today. Five minutes ago, I had heard the dogs barking at the mailman’s truck outside. I just knew that today was the day. It had only been three days since I had been notified that my name had been drawn out of over 2,000 others in a diamond jewelry giveaway. Yet, somehow I knew that the package filled with sparkling comfort would be waiting for me this afternoon in the mailbox.

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