This boy was three years old when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was 34. Now, he is seven. I am 38. What a pleasure it is to grow old with this guy, who often recalls my cancer moments.
“Did you almost die from cancer?” Joey asks periodically.
“No, I did not,” I always tell him.
“Remember when you didn’t have any hair?” he’ll sometimes say.
“How could I forget,” I tell him, just before we reminisce about how he helped shave my head, how I cried, how he told me it was just a haircut.
Three years old, he was. And he remembers. So do I.