Newton's First Law of Emotion

You get back what you're putting out.

On one hand this is a blinding flash of the obvious, but it's amazing how powerful this principle is in our lives.

On Friday Marie had a needle biopsy at Kaiser Interstate. A year and a month ago she discovered a hard round lump in her left breast. Probably nothing. Probably just a cyst. It was bigger than a pea but smaller than an eyeball. Roundish and encapsulated. She went to the doctor for an exam and a mammogram and an ultrasound and an anxious week later got back a paper form that told her not to worry. At least for now.

The year passed and the thing grew a little. Now it was the size of a glassy marble and noticeable when she touched it. Marie's father had a brain tumor and then prostate cancer, and died far before she was ready for God to take him, at 63. Just five years later her sister Peggy died of pancreatic cancer. Like many people she has a dark, fearful and scared place where that word resides in her memory. Cancer. The Big C. Among the most painful and ravaging ways to die, or watch someone you love die. Every once in a while when a headache doesn't go away or stomach trouble lasts longer than it should the fear crops up in the back of her mind. What if it comes for me? When we were little we all feared monsters in the dark, but this is a monster that is real. We've all seen its work. We've heard it gurgling under the bed or in the closet. We've watched it hollow out the cheeks and take the life from someone's eyes. It destroys cruelly and surely, and leaves despair in the place of joy and hope and belonging. On the last few days of Peggy's life her throat was full of sores from the chemo, and it was too painful to take a sip of water. We hate cancer and fear it and never want to say its name. We remember how awfully and slowly it took away someone we loved. We don't want to see that monster again. No one does.

We drove through the winter grayness to Kaiser not saying much. Bryce was cute that morning and traffic flowed smoothly. The parking garage was jammed and we had to circle around endlessly to find a spot, finally acing out an SUV for the last one along the south wall. Orange P2, the section said. I locked up and followed her to the elevator.

Marie was edgy and tense and hard to read. The woman at the counter said there was a copay. "How can there be a copay? This is a scheduled surgery, a referral. That doesn't sound right." Her voice was irritable and hard. I took out my debit card and paid it, overwhelmed by my wife's anxiety. I should have used the flex spending card but I just forgot.

On some level I knew she was acting out of fear and anxiety, but I couldn't find words or the tone to soothe her. I followed her and the nurse down the corridor and around the corner to the changing station where she had to put on the ill-fitting and unflattering exam gown. "I hate these fucking things," she screamed, loud enough for the retreating nurse to hear.

The nurse had some required identity verification questions and pre-procedure information to go over. The ludicrousness of the questions irritated Marie further. I couldn't blame her. Why would they need to ask her name and date of birth and address at that point? Would anyone impersonate someone else, merely to go through the joy of a needle biopsy? My wife is a formidable woman. She can light up a room, or suck all of the air out of it with an eyeroll and a sneer. I felt small and quiet.

In the room there was a chair in the corner and I took it, holding on to a plastic bag of snacks and a book I'd brought, not saying much as Marie vented about the stupid hospital and the stupid nurse. She had to vent about these things because you can't vent about the stupid Cancer. You can't say its name. Even though it probably wasn't cancer, just a cyst, the monster was as real as ever. It had been here before. It had haunted the most tender parts of her heart and memory.

The radiologist came in and told me I would have to leave. "It would work better for me if you waited out in the lobby," she said. I wanted to say, I don't care what works better for you, I want to be here for my wife, but I didn't want to add to the terrible tension. I left the room as asked and wandered the corridors in search of a Portland Tribune news box, finding one outside the North entrance to the clinic.

The procedure took about 30-35 minutes. Marie said they inserted the needle three times and it hurt more than she thought it would. "They numb the outside of the breast, but when it went inside and snipped it I could feel it." The entry wound took a pretty big bandage and two stitches.

She was calmer now. The results would come in a week. She told me that at first she and the radiologist and the assisting nurse were first really unpleasant, matching her own fierce anxiety, but the ice broke when she started crying. "What's wrong?" the nurse asked. She told him about her father and her sister. And the ice broke. They understood. Showing vulnerability instead of anger, she received comfort and understanding instead of cold medical indifference.

That was the lesson. You get back what you give out. And sometimes we have to be strong enough and self aware enough to give out what we really want.

It's funny how lessons like these reverberate through your life once you become receptive to them. Last night we went dancing, just like we used to, and we had a lovely date. Norman Sylvester was playing at the Tillicum and he played all our favorites, "Bring It On Home to Me," "The Thrill is Gone--and I don't want it back," the James Brown medley. He was resplendent in a red fedora and played and sang with energy that belies his age, and the crowd loved him. The old joint was packed. The pool tables were full and the bar stools were full and people were circling to find an empty chair. Our friend Jay showed up, doing a silly dance in the entryway. It was good to see him. The bass player, Rob Shoemaker, Norman's side man for 27 years, came over to say hello and introduced his son Paul, who plays drums now, the son following the father in the family business. "Ever since he was a little kid, he was drumming on something," Paul said. "I'd take him to gigs and be over talking to the drummer, asking him, 'how's this work, how do you do that.'" You could tell he was proud of his boy, who towered over his father. His youngest. Rob said he had two daughters, the oldest in Boston, the mother of his first and only grandchild, now eight months. We agreed that grandchildren were the reward for growing old. The praise and joy grandparents express about their grandchildren is kind of a fraternity handshake. It was good to talk to Rob. A bass player who never sings and doesn't talk much, but when you get to know him you find he's the kind of guy you'd want to have for a neighbor.

The evening went on that way. We saw old friends like Tony and Alisha and Monte. People complimented us on our dancing. The wait staff was pleasant and efficient and appropriately cordial. A lady at the next table started a conversation with Marie. They'd just come from the movies, saw George Clooney's new film, "Up In the Air," and it was really good.

The lesson was, we were happy and getting along and we had our spark back, and everywhere and throughout the evening people were happy to see us and saying complimentary and encouraging things. It was good to be us again. You get back what you give out, and the momentum of that simple truth is magical.

I have never seen my beautiful wife look more lovely or desirable. She was radiant and alive, and it felt wonderful to see her have such a good time. I adore her. I wish I loved her better, and she could know how much.