One of the many ironies I've been able to enjoy about my leukemia is the one where I remember how much I've always loved milk. Growing up, I'd almost always preferred milk to pop. Freshman year in college is when, living away from home for the first time, you're supposed to put on those dreaded fifteen extra pounds. Much of that, I'm sure, comes from the freedom of being able to choose whatever the hell you want to eat or drink for meals. All the Coke I can drink? some might say when they see the fountain pop dispenser in the dorm cafeteria, proceeding to stack twenty short glasses onto a tray, filling them up.
Me? Who knows why, but I actually preferred the ice-cold glass of milk. At home, especially over the summer, I'd sometimes even put a glass into the freezer before dinner started so by the time the meal was on the table, I'd be able to enjoy a truly frosty cold beverage. All this means that I had strong fucking bones. My bone marrow might have managed to get all messed up, but the bones themselves? Solid.
Another thing about milk is that it's the only beverage I'm ever able to drink when I'm eating Hot Dish. Please don't ask me to explain these things. It's the same Pavlovian response I have to watching a movie in a theater; even if I'm completely stuffed, I absolutely cannot watch the movie unless I've got a bucket of popcorn and an equally large (and overpriced) gallon or two of Coke. Dr. Pepper. Whatever. Milk and Hot Dish go equally hand-in-hand. It is the way the world works.
So when Dad and Jane come into the room first, smiling, holding what appears to be still-warm baking dish of grilled onions and fresh ground beef and creamed corn and noodles and tomato soup, and it's that familiar, comforting smell that I haven't smelled in probably close to a year, at least well before I'd left for Lancaster, I know that I'm going to want to wash down my first few bites with only one particular beverage.
"Shelby is parking the car," Dad says. "She'll be up in a minute or two."
He starts to unpack a grocery bag. Napkins and bowls and some plastic forks and spoons. One of those little travel-sized salt-and-pepper shakers we'd bring on camping trips.
"Do you want something to drink?" Jane asks.
"Some milk would be great. I think they have some in the fridge down the hall."
"Are you sure?" she asks. She knows. She knows that maybe it's not such a good idea.
"Yes," I say. Definitely. There aren't any options in my mind. I'll drink it slowly. I'll give my stomach a chance to welcome these old tastes.
"I'll get it," Dad says.
Jane lifts the foil from the glass baking dish. Steam escapes. She folds the foil in half a few times, placing it back inside the grocery bag. She brings out a large spoon. She stirs the Hot Dish. More steam.
Dad returns with a couple of cartons of milk. The little cartons, half pints, that we used to get from the school cafeteria. The kind that has that little extra funky taste, especially when they've only just been recently put into the refrigerator.
I thought the nausea had passed. I thought it was so totally and completely rear-view mirror by now. But there's something. I'm not sure what's happening, but I recognize some of these sensations, and they're most definitely not the kinds of sensations I want to be emanating from my stomach when I'm about to partake in a victory dinner.
How many bites do I get in? Three? Six? At least a few for the taste, I'm sure, before I grab a carton of milk. I somehow think that drinking milk will help with the naseau, even with all evidence to the contrary.
Plus I'm a little embarrassed. I'm supposed to be better. An old family friend is here with us, and we're celebrating.
It's no use.
I excuse myself as I rush over to my bathroom, letting the door shut behind me.
It doesn't take long. When I come back out, Jane is already packing up the dinner. She knows how smells have affected me. Everybody's apologizing at once, then forgiving, saying "no, no, it's okay," then laughing, then trying to figure out what to eat for dinner instead.
I end up going with saltine crackers. Mmm. The crispy taste of victory.
