More than one thing can be true at once. Days can be long and years can be short. Loss can be filling, and abundance not enough. Rain can fall from a sunny sky, and tulips can blossom in a spring snow. Swenny can celebrate thirty-eight months of sobriety and still get liver cancer.
Because there is harmony in contradiction, we can want no one to know, and then tell everyone: Swenny has cancer. It was found early, and his prognosis is hopeful. His sobriety awards him treatment options that would have otherwise been unavailable, including possibly a liver transplant.
While he endures testing and treatment, I scour for information about primary liver cancer, Child Pugh scores, interventional radiation, and the difference between the portal vein, the superior mesenteric vein, and the power of a thrombosis to change everything. What I haven’t found in my research, though, is a story like ours, where a girl meets a boy, and they live happily ever after, having saved the best for last.
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