"What kind of mouth-breathing cretin steals a car with a baby seat in the back?" I asked myself soon after rounding a corner one block away from my of-fice on a sun-filled spring afternoon.
I felt more stupefied than angry when, three weeks ago, instead of spotting my black, four-door Honda Civic parked next to a green recycling bin, I stood over a blank expanse of worn, charcoal-colored asphalt. And no, I didn't forget the keys inside or leave the doors unlocked or just plain space out as to where I left it last. This was a theft, as clear as the robins singing among the nearby apple blossoms.
It was also the third life-altering challenge my wife and I were forced to face in a month's time.
The first two hit us at the end of February, when we learned our landlady would be selling our home, one week after we happily found out we are expecting our second child. The question of where we'll live, combined with our planning for our next baby, was causing a solid amount of stress in the house.
But the emotional tone changed after my mother called me from Billings, Mont., to talk about her neighbors Marc and Melissa.
I knew Marc, a close friend of mine from high school, was in his own state of parental anxiety during the last few weeks of February with Melissa due to deliver their second daughter, Chloe, any day. It had been a few weeks since Marc and I had touched base with each other about the pregnancy, and my mom beat me to it by telling me Chloe had been born.
"That's great news!" I said after she noted that everything went well and Chloe was in good health.
My mom agreed, but her voice sounded flat and shaken as she continued.
"Erik, Marc has cancer."
My brain reset itself. My perspective altered.
Cancer. He's my age. He's only 35.
Instantly my own stressful situations were minimized to nothing.
While we haven't always been the best at keeping in touch, Marc and I are the kind of friends who feel at ease with each other in the space of three sentences no matter how much time has passed. I called him up and learned that he found out about his lymphoma two days before Chloe's birth.
Here's the topper: the day she was born, Marc was under the knife getting three cancer-swollen lymph nodes removed from his neck. The anaesthesiologist eased up on the standard amount of knockout juice so that Marc could be taken immediately from the recovery room to the birthing suite to help Melissa with her labor.
I thought my wife and I had it tough when our son was born seven weeks premature.
This past weekend Marc and I discussed his fourth chemotherapy session. To combat his stage IIIb Hodgkin's disease, the oncologist has prescribed the aggressive Stanford V approach. This treatment includes being injected with a compound related to mustard gas, the chemical weapon Germany dumped on Allied trench positions in World War I.
He has eight more treatments to go before starting a round of radiation therapy, and things are getting tough. The cure is weakening Marc's body and fraying his emotions. Meanwhile, he and his wife are struggling to adjust to the demands of a fussy newborn.
"What can I do for you?" I asked Marc while feeling frustrated with the miles of prairies and mountains that lie between us.
"Nothing," he replied.
He's both right and wrong. Although I may not be able to go over to his house and mow his lawn or watch as he kicks my butt at his favorite Xbox game, I can reach out to him through letters, e-mails and phone calls.
More importantly, I can listen as only an old friend can and heed his advice when he tells me to not take the people that care about us for granted, and to make sure we always treat them with respect, tolerance and big, big love.
During this season of rebirth, my good friend is being forced to deal with the extremes of life and death. His situation reminds me that the vast majority of problems we face during our days and nights here in the Emerald City are luxurious ones.
A stolen car and a forced move are inconveniences, and a new baby is an amazing opportunity: all of them are chances for redirection and renewal. I hope Marc's cancer ends up being cut from the same metaphysical cloth.
Erik Hansen is editor of Beacon Hill News & South District Journal, an affiliate of Queen Anne News.
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