You remember the Keanu Reeves era? Now, you ladies will be loathe to admit it but many of you thought he was it. Until you realized he wasn't very smart. Okay, he was dumb. In the middle of his time in the Hollywood sun he did this chick movie where he loved this Mexican-American girl who's family owned a vineyard. The really chick moment came when he (or she. Frankly, I can't remember.) got to step into the vat of grapes and crushed them good. I'll bet my wife watched that movie and pretended she was the grapes and he was stepping on her. Or something like that. Anywho, Keanu was really happy at that moment of the movie. It was the crescendo of chickness where this beautiful, sort of effeminate man finally understood his woman and all her struggles of womaness without saying a word, all amongst a wooden crate of seedless fruit.
Well I had a similar moment last Saturday. While I am not nearly as good looking as K, I am as dumb. My harvest was the stem cells. I had just spent two days sitting in front of a metal box that sucked my blood out, swished it around like wine and then plucked out the stem cells before sending it back into my body. I was supposed to get an average of 1 million cells a day and do it for five days, making 5 million.
But my harvest was bountiful. I got 3.75 million the first day and 3.38 million the second. I passed up the required 5 million with three days to spare. The glorious euphoria of finally being able to do something right made me feel as light and airy as Keanu. Besides thinking that I am healthier than I thought, it also meant that I no longer had to take two shots a day that made all my bones and muscles ache. And it meant that I had a free weekend.
Even though my dad was there, he was the one who said I should go home to see my kids. So I did. He left, too. He liked the Rotary House but not so much that he wanted to stay there over the weekend with nobody to talk to.
So I surprised my family. And then McKenna surprised me. She cried. She wasn't supposed to do that. Conner, yeah. He's old enough to know what cancer is. He knows that nobody in their right mind would willingly spend months in Houston, Texas unless it was a matter of life and death. So he knows this is a struggle. But I didn't think Kenna was aware of this. Little girls aren't supposed to cry about cancer. They're supposed to cry about not getting cell phones.
Still, I had a great weekend. We didn't do much. But I sucked in every boring moment the way the metal machine sucked in my blood.
Now it's Monday. I'm back at the Rotary House. They're showing Mall Cops in the lobby. I have to replace my line in my chest with another, smaller line tomorrow. Deeper into my mid-section, my chest pains continue. My neck sill hurts and muscles are moving. I keep thinking back to the weekend and hoping to feel like Keanu Reeves in his grapes. Someday I will.