Blogs

(Editor's Note: This is an excerpt from Jayne Robinson's upcoming book, The Convertible Chronicles: Going Topless. Click here for guidelines for prospective contributors.)

"The really happy person is one who can enjoy the scenery when on a detour."

- Unknown

I make my way down the crowded aisle. I am headed to Paris - my luggage lighter than the limit, but I carry the diagnosis of cancer.

The plan was to spend four weeks teaching. And then 10 days in Provence with my two daughters, Lizzie and Kat, traveling by train and a mini-Cooper convertible. I am forced to detour by a cluster of unruly cells.

# # #

"Excuse me, would you like a stick of gum?" my seatmate, a woman in her 60s, says. I take it and mumble thanks. I am in a metal cocoon with a woman battling fourth-stage liver cancer. Her husband died when she was in her 40s leaving her to raise her children alone; her daughter died of diabetes. I tell her about my convertible and how my trip was supposed to end not in cancer surgery but a roofless ride through Provence with my two daughters.

She tells me her sister has a convertible. She says, "You know that face? The face you have when you are in a convertible and wind and time are rushing past." I do. I have often been accused of looking sad or tired when I am neither. People taking my photo say, "Look happy, for God's sake. … Well, OK, just say cheese." After my first child was born I sent a photo of me holding her to my father. He tells me it is the first photo of my life where I looked happy. But in a convertible the wind transforms my face. Joy wipes away the years.

"You know," she says, "cancer, like convertibles, is good at blowing unnecessary things out of your hair and mind."

On the day before I am set to fly home we visit Reims. The cathedral is lovely, but my religious experience comes in the cellars of Maison de Champagne Taittinger. Bottles destined to travel the world, to toast babies not yet conceived, life partners not yet drawn together, anniversaries of people now struggling, who hope their union will be celebrated, the burning of mortgages and degrees bestowed, cancers in remission, ships launched in calm seas. …

Surgery morning is dark with a fine rain. It has rained on all the significant days of my life. The rain on our wedding day stopped just as we crossed over the Ambassador Bridge, and a double rainbow graced our Canadian honeymoon. It rained on the day I defended my Ph.D., the birth days of both Lizzie and Kat, the day Lizzie was diagnosed with MS - and four solid days after; the universe wanted to be sure I understood that this meant the disease would not conquer this girl. And today.

I take this as a good omen.

I ask my husband, Wayne, if he will drive me to the hospital in the convertible. I want to feel the rain on my face. I wish I was heading to the hospital with my uterus full of child, not cancer. It feels like yesterday Kat was born. Einstein insists time is not linear. Today it is evident.

The surgeon emerges and tells Wayne and my daughters that it went well. Earliest stages.

Lizzie uses her vacation to take care of me. Both daughters join me in bed for pillow talk. Wayne dotes. …

I see love, the love of the humans we travel with - who chauffeur us when we are broken and ride shotgun in convertibles when we joyride.

Summer is running out. Do I feel well enough to go river rafting?

So, under a perfect blue sky, we tumble our way down one of the world's oldest rivers. Between whitewater we jump into the river and float - our family a flotilla. Kat often says we are like one soul in four bodies. The river drowns my worries. Back home I am ready to drive solo. Wayne helps me put down the top and lower myself, gingerly, into the seat of our almost classic convertible. I head out on the highway and then cut away into the woods. I drive until I am at the speed of life. Time slows, and flows, like caramel in the sun. It is like the river, this road. It flows and I flow with it; I am 17 driving down a road in Southern Ontario. And I feel it ... convertible face.

- Jayne Robinson

Jayne Robinson is a professor of biology at the University of Dayton and author of The Cake Chronicles: Finding Sweet Hope In This Crazy World. This is an excerpt from her upcoming book, The Convertible Chronicles: Going Topless. It first appeared in the spring 2015 issue of the University of Dayton Magazine.