Easter Weekend

Cindy will be gone for the weekend. It's Easter, and she and her husband, Chris, have made some plans to spend some time with their families in Cashmere, this tiny town up along some narrow Cascade Mountain highway or another, not known for much of anything other than being the home of Aplets & Cotlets. She knows how much more worse my fevers get when I don't see her at all during the day, although we can never explain exactly WHY it happens. It just does.

I'm surprised to see her on Saturday morning, but she said that she wanted to stop by, quickly, on her way out of town, to bring me a little something.

"It's not much," she says, handing over a bright yellow envelope. There are a couple of Snoopy and Woodstock stickers on the outside.

"Thanks. You didn't have to do this."

My two bulletin boards are completely filled with cards and notes and letters. I've shifted my Far Side calendar to the bottom, so that it's hanging over the edge, to make room for more cards. The cards have come from all over -- friends at Lancaster, immediately after I'd left, and, now that I've been in the hospital for almost two months, follow-up cards to make sure everything is going well; friends from Carleton, sometimes sending a card a week; neighbors; former teachers; former high school (and grade school) classmates; my parent's co-workers; daily cards from my Aunt.

I don't need (or expect) a get well card from Cindy. She's with me almost every day. She's helped in more ways than I could have ever imagined, and if I would have allowed myself time to think about it, I probably could have figured out that the reason my temps spiked the highest when she wasn't working was because I'd equated all of the good things that had happened since we'd arrived at the hospital -- all of the healing that was taking place -- with Cindy. If she wasn't there, my brain had quietly figured out, then things were not getting better.

"Careful," Cindy says.

I've opened the envelope. I'm taking out the card.

"There's something inside," she says.

Already in the envelope I can see tiny metal dots, shiny punches of confetti. They're falling out of the card. A few fall into my hand before fluttering further downward, pinpoints of color on my white bed sheets. The outside of the card has Snoopy and Woodstock dancing together, hands together, noses pointing skyward, their feet a circular blur. Inside, there are dozens of bits of confetti. More fall out.

"Catch those," Cindy says. "Those are your polys."

She's written the same thing inside the card.

We've been waiting almost a month, now, for my polys to return, and I wish it was simple as confetti inside an Easter card, but it's the thought that counts, and I know Cindy wants them to come back as badly as I do. I'll take them. I'll take absolutely anything at this point, even though these polys won't show up on any of my charts.

"Thanks, Cindy. This means a lot to me."

"You're welcome. Now don't get sick while I'm gone, okay?"

"I won't."

She hugs me quickly. "Okay, then."