We go to Las Vegas about every three months to see Bob’s dad, and we always stay at the Delano in Mandalay Bay. The Pai Gow tables are close to the bar and lounge, where most nights the house classic rock cover band is playing. They’re good, and Bob always wants to stop and watch the band for a few minutes as we’re heading back to our room. There’s a guy on the dance floor every song – of every night I’ve watched the band. He sort of sticks out because he’s unlikely – a bald, elderly gentleman with his own particularly unique dance style, rocking out. Sometimes he’s the only one dancing, but usually there are others on the floor, and often younger women dance with him. He’s got a good thing going.
He’s become a touchpoint for me – it’s not a trip to Vegas until I see my dancing man. He’s inspiring – the band doesn’t even start until 10 pm. I’m a night person, and still head to bed before he’s done dancing. Amazing.
We’re in Vegas now, getting in a visit before I start chemo on Friday and am grounded for a while. It’s been three months since our last visit. Three months ago, all I knew is that I needed to go back in for a breast biopsy. The diagnosis, the panic, my 50th birthday, the surgery, the recovery, the holidays, finding out I need chemo – none of that had happened when we were here last.
I am counting down the days until chemo, and while I’m a bit freaked out at how fast it’s coming up, I’m not stressed in the same way I was leading up to surgery. I struggle a bit with how strange it is to be perfectly, totally, 100 percent healthy and fine (and technically, cancer free at the moment), and still sign up to go in and have poison poured into my body. Yes, please. Let’s do the poison and hope for the best. There’s more than a little “Thank you, Ma’am, may I have another” fraternity hazing feel to this bullshit.
Bring it. I’m ready. I made a deal with myself that when I came to Vegas and saw my dancing man, that would be the sign that everything would go fine with the chemo. It would be an easy benchmark to hit, because he’s there all the time, but still, that would be my sign.
And then he wasn’t there. There was a funk band both Friday and Saturday nights. My dancing man is a classic rock guy. I looked for him, but he wasn’t there. It was the wrong band.
I got a little panicky. I tried to make up for it. If I touched the smooth stone lining the hall into the hotel, every single time…but I didn’t start that from the beginning, and I’d already missed a few times. At the Pai Gow table last night, we were on a losing streak until two friends sat down, who were both named Jason. The tide changed, and we ended the night ahead. Then today when the relief dealer was wearing a name tag that said “Jason” I decided THAT was my sign, the three Jasons. I still didn’t feel too confident that these things would all make up for missing my dancing man.
I told Bob the bet I’d made with myself, and he asked why I’d do that. He doesn’t know that I’m making bets all the time, taking good omens in the number patterns on the odometer, the gas meter, the clock, three strangers named Jason. But you can’t just change the rules and expect the luck to work. I tried to convince myself that chemo would be okay. My bets are meaningless and stupid, and won’t change a thing.
I almost started openly weeping at the Pai Gow table tonight when I heard rock pulsing from the lounge. Oh my god, it’s the band. The band is back.
And so is my dancing man. Chemo will be fine.