Windows were rolled down to breathe in the healing mountain air, as we commented to each other, as we always did, on how fresh and alive the mountain seemed. After the 10-hour drive, sitting in a line of cars waiting to go through the Mont-Blanc tunnel seemed easier this time. The twins waited patiently for our turn to pay and receive the information card, and my daughter reminded me to turn the radio to the emergency station.
This time was different. We’d done the drive from Rome to Chamonix multiple times, with friends and family for our annual summer vacation. This year, my husband was not going to run the unimaginable distance around Mont-Blanc as a participant in one of the Ultra Trail of Mont Blanc annual train running races. We were not meeting friends to cheer him along and help me drag our kids from spot-to-spot to give hugs and support. His mom wasn’t flying into Geneva to join the support party.
It all started with a cough and ended in a diagnosis of stage 4 non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma and a year of treatment in a language not our own in a health care system that seemed as foreign to us as an outer-planet landscape. After spending years in Rome, Italy, my husband, the main bread-winner and reason we were away from family in the US and England, was dying. Ten months later, after intense chemo and a long period of radiation treatment, doctors told us he would live. If we were lucky, he wouldn’t need a stem-cell transplant.
We sat in traffic, waiting to celebrate that the doctors were right and to hope they would keep being right. The traffic moved slowly, and eventually we entered the tunnel. Right before entering, we glanced up, saw the sparkling snow atop the mountain, and watched a glacial stream crash down through a pristine pine forest.
The kids started getting antsy, knowing that through the tunnel was their “home away from home”, their “happy forest”. My husband and I glanced at each other and smiled….we were celebrating life, family, and survival in a place with grandiose splendor worthy of this moment.
Exiting the tunnel the kids’ energy increased as excitement for Richard’s Patisserie baguettes and French pastries ran through the car. The winding road from the mouth of the tunnel to the quaint ski town of Chamonix allowed glimpses of the glaciers, pine forests and eventually the town center. Our son dictated directions excitedly to our staple lodging….Bibendum Chalet on the outskirts of town. Nestled in the “happy forest”, our chalet provided the healing comfort of a known entity, where kids could play and parents could rest and our life could begin to be normal again.
That night, after arriving, eating, and getting the kids to finally sleep, my husband and I sat on the balcony toasting his survival. Finally, I could breathe again.
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