Noon, May 11

At noon on May 11, 2021, I found out that Julie has cancer. 

At 12:30 p.m. that day, I went to get a haircut. 

I would normally go for lunch at this time, but I couldn’t eat. My stomach had that weird feeling that accompanies tragic news.


I thought about hanging around court, but that would put me in close proximity to other people. There’s about a dozen lawyers, myself included, that spend most of their days in this particular traffic court. I’m friendly with all of them, and count a few as close friends. 


I’d be forced to talk to them. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. So I got a haircut.


I’m the type that sits in dead silence during a haircut. It’s not personal. I guess at baseline, I’m an introvert, although I’m very good at pretending to be the opposite from nine to five. I have my regular barber on May 11. He’s a nice guy, and we know each other, but we never get past small talk. Today it’s smaller than small talk. 


“The city is opening up again, huh?"


“Yep.”


“Lots of people walking around Wall Street today. Tourists, too.”


I didn’t answer. Maybe I grunted? Whatever sound I made, or didn’t make, he got the point. Pure silence after that. 


Now it’s one o’clock and I’m back in court. My day has three more work hours. I have to be back at the vet by five to pick Julie up. I stress about coordinating to make sure I arrive there on time — and I do, by about twenty minutes. Lord, how I stressed about that. 


And there she is. Woozy in her crate, the effects of anesthesia. Slumped against the sides of her carrier. I can’t tell if she’s even awake; she barely responds when I say her name. 


When we’re back home and she emerges from the carrier, she stumbles. It takes me a second to realize how sedated she still is — and she can barely walk. It’s a hard sight to see after the news I just got, even though I know her clumsiness is caused by the anesthesia. 


She slinks away to one of her spots, as cats do. I don’t want to disturb her. The day has been wretched enough already for us both. From here on, I want this day to be as normal as it can be. 

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