Don't Forget About the Roses

My Fourth and Final Week

The 22nd Day of My Treatment

Ian sat next to me in his chair, silently reading from a new book. It was amazing to me how comfortable we'd become in each other's presence in such a short time.

He was great with the girls, and even more patient with me. Chemo brain. Not my finest hour, or 520 some hours, but he didn't seem to mind.

"You know?" he said once. "I've never had a friend like you."

I smirked. "What, a bald one?"

"No, a pretty, thoughful, caring one. If you hadn't noticed, the wheelchair isn't exactly a chick magnet. At least not the kind I want to attract, or deal with for that matter." I knew what he meant--the pitying kind. For the first couple of weeks, I had been swarmed by a slew of girls from college that I barely even knew.

Wait, did he just call me pretty? Guys rarely seemed to find me pretty, considering I'd only ever been on a handful of dates. None of them had ever turned into any kind of relationship. I wasn't sure what to say. "Thanks."

I wanted to slap myself in the face. He must think I'm so lame. "So, are you free any time soon?"

"Well I only have about 5 minutes left on this bag."

"Great."

. . .

After I finished my session, Ian took me for a walk around the ward. With a safety mask of course.

We were quiet for a long time, not needing to say anything. "So, will I see you again after this?"

I smiled. "Of course, this is the most fun I've had in a long time, well, minus the chemo."

We looked at each other for what felt like a very long moment, and I thought maybe I had found someone I could see myself spending a lot of time with.