Fifty-Five

FIFTY-FIVE

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, I spend over an hour driving on Route 27 to my regularly scheduled appointment with Dr. Sam Wylie. She has nothing new to report, nor does my oncologist, Dr. Gellis. She just wants to make sure I'm still good with resuming chemo, even with the trial date being moved up.

"Can't wait!" I say.

"I'm immune to your sarcasm by now," Sam says. "You know that, right?"

"It had to happen eventually," I tell her, before hugging her good-bye and reminding her that I love her madly.

The trip home takes an hour. I do a couple of hours of prep work on the case, then consider driving over to Three Mile Harbor to do some running and shooting. I haven't done much of either lately, mostly because I've abandoned the idea of competing in my no-snow biathlon in the fall.

I still like to run and shoot.

Instead I take Rip the dog, who continues to defy his own bleak prognosis and keeps getting stronger—one of us has to—for a long walk on the beach, Indian Wells to Atlantic and back.

It is a beautiful afternoon, one of those afternoons out here, and I am happier than ever to be making this walk with my dog, happy to be walking these beaches, wind in my hair, ocean at full voice, hardly any clouds in the sky.

I put Rip into the car and then walk back down to the water, not wanting to leave until I offer one of my quiet prayers—the praying always seems to go better here—for this not to all be taken away from me.

Not just these beaches.

"I like my life now," I say quietly, talking to God or to the ocean or to both of them. "I finally like me. "

I've just gotten out of the shower an hour later when I get the call about what happened to Dr. Ben.