Kate Reimann

muse & ponder; ponder & write

Writing for my life.


Though we chase the fading light of the longest day of the year as long as possible, the stars give way and the sun relents.  From the passenger side of the childless car I look up at the pale blue, darker to the east and lighter to the west, and see the constellations appear.  I remember our last night in Buenos Aires, the warm breeze, the full moon.  The balcony spread before us offering us a view unparalleled; city parks sprawling below us like a carpet unfurled, the tree tops beckoning to us with their swaying branches.  The vibrantly lit and Romanesque fountain a block away, changing colors every night.  My husband and I sip our favorite discovery: an obscure Argentine blend that makes us feel like locals.  We star gaze and whisper and at some point I cry about the fate that awaits us: cancer treatment, no house, uncertain future.  But on the balcony I can postpone my dread for a few more hours, and so we stay.  Looking up, my husband wonders aloud about the stars overhead, the brilliant canopy that seems to shine brighter this night. 

“I’ve always wanted to see the Southern Cross”, he muses, more to himself than to me, and then suddenly he’s a man on a mission, searching for the Ipad, searching with purpose.  He returns a moment later, face buried in screen.  “Didn’t my parents have some star-gazing app?” he asks me without looking up, though an answer is not required.  He has already begun the download.  We wait a moment longer, and then he points the Ipad at the stars, hoping to learn just one more thing about this magical place in the southern hemisphere before we are foreigners again.

He moves the Ipad slowly across the sky as he identifies one by one the satellites and constellations.  And then, victory.

“There!  Right there!” he signals to a small cluster in the sky, switching between his Ipad and reality, “the southern cross!”  A contented smile on his face, he checks it off the list.  There it is: gratitude.  He can’t stay here in the city he loves working a job he relished, but at least he found the stars he sought, and he is grateful.

I smile to myself in the car, remembering the fulfillment of “finding” the constellation right before we left for good.  I turn my gaze over to my husband, steering us home.  The ceremony this afternoon brought us back to yet another time; another part of his life out of reach due to cancer and circumstance.  The change of command ceremony in middle-of-nowhere South Carolina was not to be missed.  A squadron he flew with now to be run by one of his best friends; history coming full-circle. 

I remember my husband’s anxious request.  “I’d like to be there,” he says after receiving an email from his friend announcing his change of command.  And I agree.  We drive 7 hours south from DC to SC to watch the ceremony.  It is a breezy, blue-sky day on base and the roar of the jets makes me ache for our former life.  I catch myself remembering the drives home from my job under the hot Phoenix sun, weaving through the back roads lined by rose fields as I try to catch a glimpse of my then-fiancé in his jet, wondering if he can see me from the sky.  My husband stands in the hangar at attention as we watch the ceremony, wearing his flight suit for what is likely to be his last time.  Among other things, cancer has stolen his ability to fly. The flags change hands and suddenly our friend has become commander, right in front of us.  My husband smiles and tells me to watch the jet in the back of the hangar.  I turn to see an airmen unveil the new commander’s name on the jet, symbolism and history all in one.  My husband claps his hands together in pride and excitement, reveling in the experience.

An hour later we are celebrating and I am talking to the new squadron commander’s wife, the dermatologist friend—our first call after my husband’s diagnosis—who knew before we did what a stage III melanoma diagnosis actually meant.  Between children tugging at her dress and a sprinkling of well wishes from other spouses and airmen, we talk about the last year of our lives, the surprises we’ve encountered, the joys and the heartaches.

And then she asks, “How are you handling all this?” and her eyes begin to mist.  I take a breath.  But the words come easily, because they are true. 

“I made a decision.  I have two options:  I can either wonder everyday whether my husband will die from this, or I can enjoy every second of every day we have together.”  I scan the room to find my husband.  I spot him with the commander, laughing.  He sees me and smiles.  “And I choose to enjoy.”  I catch myself wavering as I finish the sentence.  This is not the place I tell myself.

She smiles and I smile and I know that in a different setting, we’d be crying.  But there isn’t time and it doesn’t matter.  We are celebrating.  Life is happening all around us.  And so we rejoice.

“The longest day of the year and now it’s over!” my husband’s observation brings me back to the front seat as he watches the dark envelope the sky.

“Do you miss it?” I ask him, and he frowns for a minute as he deciphers what “it” I am referring to.

“The flying?”

“Yes,” I answer, “the jet, the flying, your old life.”

He takes a moment and adjusts his hands on the wheel, flexing his hands and then re-grips.  “I do miss it,” he reflects, “but I’m really happy with the decisions we’ve made.  Going to Argentina took me out of the jet, but I wouldn’t have missed it.”  He takes a breath and then proceeds, his voice a little softer.

“I’m just so glad I’ve been able to do all that I’ve done.  I really am.”

And there it is: gratitude. The change of command, the jets he’ll never fly again, watching friends move on and up in their career while he is sidelined by cancer on “patient status” until the end of his clinical trial, none of this bothers him.  He squeezes the good out and discards the rest.  He is the person I wake up to every morning, and he manages to surprise me even now.  In this moment, I remind myself to be more like him.

“Do you miss it?” he says with a grin, well aware of my weakness for a man in a flight suit.

I smile, “Just don’t throw out the flight suit.”

He laughs and we drive into the dark, watching the northern hemisphere stars burn brighter as we go.  I scan the satellite radio and find a Jimmy Eat World concert and we sing when we know the words, and listen when we don’t.  Closer to the city he spots fireworks from a theme park in the distance and we watch like little kids.   Our drive comes to a close beneath the brilliant full moon and we kiss each other before getting out of the car as if on a first date.  The moon full and bright, the stars sparkling, the fireworks, it’s as if the city is welcoming him home. 

And I am grateful.