I’ve been thinking about my “real age” since I took that quiz on the web a few months back. I’m not bothered by my numerical age, but the quiz did get me to thinking more about my lifestyle. I eat right, get a good amount of sleep, and take care of my appearance. But I’m seriously lacking in the social/hobby department.

I go to work, come home, spend some time with Elyse, and then go to bed. It feels like the life of someone twice my age. So I’ve been trying to do a better job of keeping in touch with friends and rekindling some old interests.

Some colleagues in the office have been taking tennis lessons, and they extended an invitation for me to join them during a weekly practice session. I was excited, but nervous. I haven’t played tennis seriously since high school. Plus, my equipment was a little shoddy. I found my racket underneath a stack of junk in the basement, and the handle’s grip was cracked with age. My tote was full of dried-out grip tape and deflated tennis balls.

And to top it all off, I didn’t have anything to wear. I’ve always wanted one of those cute little tennis skirts, but they were not cut for the big-booty girls back then. and my mother refused to get me one.

I know, I know. When you chase a ball across a slab of concrete under the blazing sun, you should not expect to look great while doing it. But you should dress for the occasion, and I was hard pressed to find a pair of shorts. After a little digging, I found some gray ones and a fading DST t-shirt. I looked at the shirt and considered for a moment how much older it was than my daughter. But I quickly pushed that aside. Thoughts like that were sure to drive up my real age.

It was scorching hot yesterday, and after a few minutes on the court, I was covered in sweat and ready to sit down. I had forgotten how miserable that feeling is. I had also forgotten, though, how much fun the game is. I saw a few flashes of greatness during the hour that I played. Slim moments of excellence when my body remembered the perfect shot. Like that backhand swing that makes the ball sail just above the net. Or the volley that your opponent can’t get to fast enough. Those moments were few and far between.

I came home tired, but fulfilled. I left my racket in the TV room as a reminder to pick up some grip tape this weekend. I wasn’t even sore. But I shouldn’t have counted my chickens so soon. I woke up this morning with a tight back, and now every muscle in my body hurts. It’s 9:30 p.m., and I’ve been in bed for nearly an hour, covered in heat wraps and muscle cream. I’m not sure what makes this situation sounds worse – the aches and pains, the early bedtime, or the stockpile of ThermaCare wraps and Ben-Gay.

Nevertheless, I am still in good spirits. I did something that I enjoy, I spent time with friends, and I got in some exercise to boot. I just need a few weeks (or months) to get in better shape. I should pick up some more sports creme when I get that grip tape. And a water bottle. Oh, and I’ll take a look at tennis skirts. Venus and Serena have made a serious impact on the game. I should have no problem finding one that works now.

It’s been nearly a month since Chris left for the cancer treatment center. She was to be gone a week for diagnosis, but she decided to stay and receive treatment there. Two rounds of chemotherapy. I sent e-mails, a birthday card, and a hot pink pashmina –a series of one-way messages to let her know that she was in my thoughts.

After nearly three and a half weeks, Chris sent out an update. “Well, praise be to God because the PET scan showed that the cancer has NOT spread to any other part of the body at all. They were also able to re-assign the stage from a IV to III.”

Praise Him indeed. This message was well worth the wait.

A few months ago, my father volunteered to pick E up from daycare on Fridays and keep her overnight. On Saturday morning, they have breakfast at IHOP before he brings her home. I’ve always wondered what they do on Friday nights, and now I know. Here’s a video of E and my dad dancing at our family reunion this past weekend. Sorry about the unsteady hand on the video. I was too busy laughing.

I was able to visit with Chris before she left for Oklahoma.

I saw her husband, James, as he dropped the kids off Tuesday. He told me that Chris was managing her pain pretty well that morning and that it would be a good time to call. I called her from the car on my way to work.

Her voice was weak when she answered the phone. It startled me.

“Hey, it’s D.”

“I’m so glad that you called,” her voice gained strength almost immediately.

We spent my half hour drive talking about potty training, work, and the book club. I came close to crying only when she asked me whether or not Mike was going to propose. “James had to learn the hard way,” she said gently. “Life is too short. Tell Mike to get with it.”

I couldn’t focus for the rest of the day. My mood was bittersweet. My dad picked Elyse up from daycare, and it gave me a chance to stop by her house. I kept trying to prepare myself for the worse. I told myself that she’s lost a lot of weight, that she’s in pain. I promised myself that I wouldn’t cry.

It wasn’t necessary. Chris has lost a lot of weight, but she still looked like herself. She was full of good humor. Her sister and a few other friends were there. We talked and laughed as usual. I had never noticed the color of her eyes before. Hazel.

By Friday, an update e-mail was circulating. Chris made it to Oklahoma, and she is impressed with her treatment center. I’m glad that I was able to spend some time with her to see that this battle hasn’t broken her spirit.

Ever since I pledged my sorority in college (OOO-OOP), four has been my favorite number. It was my line number, my position in the group of eleven women who worked together to make the journey into DST. My identity was linked to my number during that time, and I saw the beauty in that digit. It was a perfect square, a pair of pairs. And it looked nice on the back of my red roller-derby jacket.

But four isn’t beautiful when it comes to cancer. My friend, my sorority sister, was diagnosed with stage four colon cancer. There is nothing perfect about it.

I saw her about a month ago when she dropped her daughter at daycare. Our drop off and pickup schedules are usually about 45 minutes apart, but I was taking Elyse in a little early that Wednesday. Chris was limping.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “You look like you are walking funny.”

“Well, I have a mass in my abdomen. We’re going to see the surgeon on Friday. I haven’t been to work in a couple of weeks.”

I was thinking fibroids. A painful, but highly treatable, condition that a lot of women have.

“Okay, go home and get some rest. Let me know if you need something. I’ll call you next week.”

By Monday, the sister network had sent out an e-mail that was as vague as it was ominous. Chris had gone in for exploratory surgery, and the doctors found two masses. She was at home resting. I called a few times, but I didn’t catch her.

E-mail #2, sent out the next week, was even more ominous. It was difficult to tell what exactly her condition was, but the words “oncologist” and “chemotherapy” said it all.

That Sunday I went to our book club meeting, but I got there late. My friend Kay caught me up on what happened later that evening. I was vegging out on my favorite spot on the couch when she called. “I got Kim’s house a few minutes early, and we got to talk about Chris. It is cancer, and she is starting chemo soon. Her mother had cancer, and Kim says that she is cool with it being cancer.”

I sat up fast. “Cool with it? What does that mean? How is someone cool with cancer?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she just meant that she is trying to work through it.”

“Whatever. Nobody is cool with cancer.”

Hmmph. Cool my ass. You are cool with grape Kool-Aid instead of cherry. You are cool with going to the grocery store tomorrow instead of today. You are not cool with cancer.

I called Chris a few more times, but I still kept missing her.

E-mail #3 is released. Chris has lost more than 20 pounds and she was admitted to the hospital because one of the tumors is squeezing an artery and making it difficult to breathe. She is going to a treatment center in Oklahoma for a second opinion and potential treatment.

Cool my ass.

Another sister in our book club was celebrating her birthday this past weekend. Her husband threw her a surprise party, and we hoped to see Chris there. She wasn’t feeling well enough to come out.

Kay and I were still speculating and worried. The e-mails had been vague, and we weren’t sure if Chris was receiving treatment. Kay was able to talk with one of Chris’ closest friends and get some more information. She sat down next to me as I was eating.

“Okay, I talked to Tonya, and I was able to find out about Chris. She has stage four colon cancer.” I dropped my fork.

“What?”

“So, all of the e-mails that we’ve gotten about her, about pain and hospitalization, that has been the cancer. She hasn’t even started treatment yet. The doctors here say that one of the tumors is inoperable, and she is going to Oklahoma for the second opinion, and hopefully treatment.”

I kept frowning, and Kay went on. “Colon cancer is typically something people get in their 40s and 50s. Doctor’s don’t recommend that you get a colonoscopy until you are in your 40s. Chris will be 34 next week.”

We ate our meal in silence. We eventually found our way through some small talk and back into the party.

Cool with it? Bull.

I cried on the way home. Chris is married with two kids. I started thinking about some of our times together.

When we were trying to learn how to rollerblade five years ago, was the cancer there then? What about when we were in the bowling league? Or when she was carrying her daughter? At my daughter’s birthday party two Decembers ago, she told me that she was starting a new job and considering having another baby. How far along was the cancer then? How did she carry Colin through this? How long did it take to get from Stage 0 to Stage 4?

But it does no good to speculate. This is Chris’ fight, her dragon to slay. I’m standing on the sidelines, watching her battle this beast. I wish I that I could jump the dragon from behind, give her an edge so that she could beat its ass. But I can’t. All I can do is pray.

So that’s what I do. I pray for Chris’ strength. I pray that God touches those who treat her, so that they can help to make her well. I pray for her faithfulness. I pray for her husband and children, and I thank God for her presence in my life.

I love you, Chris, and I pray for your safe and healthy return home.