Flashback to June 12, 2005: It was four days before my first chemotherapy and the impending taste bud destruction. For my “Last Supper” I chose Lola, a modern Greek restaurant. That means you can get grilled octopus and dolmades, but you can also get high-tech martinis and wild Pacific prawns.

Our server was young and beautiful and her dark hair was rinsed cherry red. She cheerily explained the specials and asked if we had any questions. Having just had a mastectomy, all I could think was, “Have you had your mammogram?”

Instead I blurted out, “Of all the restaurants in Seattle, this is the one I chose for my last meal before chemo.”

She blinked for a few moments and then smiled and said, “I’m so glad you chose to come here.”

Since I was feeling like I was about to be sacrificed, I considered the lamb for my entrée. But I pushed away the dramatic mental images of my martyrdom and reminded myself, “Cancer is the enemy. Chemo is the defense.”

So I chose something I thought was symbolic of my new attitude: goat; cider braised with honeycrisp apples, roasted shallots, and celery salad. It was divine and I say that as an ordained minister and experienced foodie.

Our awareness that this was our last dinner out before six months of unknown chemo side-effects made every bite, sip, scent and sound sublime.

“This is the best dinner I’ve ever eaten,” I said holding hands across the table with Wes. He could only nod since his mouth was filled with chickpea fries, but I saw his eyes well up.

Our server came back to ask if we wanted dessert. “Just the check,” Wes answered.

She gave us a big smile and said, “You’re welcome to pay next time you come in. This one is on the house.”
We didn’t leave for another twenty minutes because we couldn’t stop crying.

So this December was our 22nd wedding anniversary and the next day was my two year end-of-chemo anniversary. “Let’s go to Lola!” I said to Wes.

I made the reservations and then, after a moment’s hesitation, told the hostess our experience from two years before. “I know it’s crazy,” I said. “But is she still there? She had cherry red hair.”

“Hold on.” I was on hold for a few moments and then someone picked up.

“I remember you,” the voice said.

It was her—Sabrina our server who is now a manager! We were coming in Friday night which is the only night she managed at Lola. Coincidence? I think not!

We were a party of six and Sabrina bought our appetizers and desserts. I gave her a copy of It's Not About the Hair. We ate, we drank, we laughed, gratitude flowing faster than wine. I ordered the goat and it was as delicious as I remembered.

Before we left I hugged Sabrina and said, “You just don’t know how many times I’ve told that story of my Last Supper.”

“I’ve told the story too!” she said. “I understand about the eating because my mom had chemo.”

I was stunned. “Gosh,” I said. “I didn’t realize that. How is your mom doing?”

She hesitated a moment. “She died—when I was little. But I still remember.”

I gave her another, longer hug. Clearly, in the few years they were together, her mother had taught her about love.

No wonder that night had felt like the Last Supper:

Do this in remembrance of me.

And she had.

The Parent's Reaction

Spray-paint around the bumps? Did I say someone should spray-paint around my parents? How about a giant CAUTION sign and then red flashing lights?

My mom is so mad that she couldn't even speak to me just now on the phone. My dad however, spoke to me and explained. "She thought you used too many cuss words. And she didn't like the part about sex. She's not even sure now that she wants anyone to buy it. "

Let me just say here that ANY swear words would be too many for Mom. In 256 pages I use maybe ten swear words. But to tell you the truth, I breathed a sigh of relief because what I thought she would be mad about--my writing about estrangement in the family--he never even mentioned.

Phew!

So I explained to Dad that patients tell me all the time that no one ever talks about sex after cancer and no one is writing about it, so that's why I thought it important to write about it.

"Well, I see your point, honey, but your mother's so upset she's been snapping at me all week. She's like an alligator with PMS."

I thought that was pretty funny, but felt bad that she was taking it out on him. It made me wonder about what she thought I was going to write. Sigh.

I believe I have to speak my truth with love and compassion and then let the chips fall where they may. I'm not responsible for anyone's emotions but my own. At the same time I'll confess there is this little girl in me asking, "Mommy doesn't like it?"