The Dance

We learned to tango when we took dance classes for our daughter's wedding. The tango is not a practical dance for such an occasion but we were planning a trip to Argentina and thought it might be nice to at least learn a simple form of the dance. So after we learned the waltz and rumba; we tangoed, albeit badly. My husband, Buz was a better student than I. That left brain engineer part of him took to the order of the steps, tracing the precise pattern on the dance floor as if it had been designed in a computer drafting program. My right brain self was more tuned to the rhythm, my hips willing to move to the beat but my feet, rebellious and undisciplined, were reluctant to follow the lead. Perhaps they were protesting my refusal to invest in the sexy $200 heels that were recommended by our teacher.

So when we visited Buenos Aires and were eating empanadas at an outdoor cafe my husband was the one that accepted the invitation to tango in the street. The beautiful young woman's partner tried to lure me with his Latin charm but I knew the limited capabilities of my unruly feet and I stayed where I sat. Buz did a marvelous job of moving to the music with the dark haired senorita draped around his neck. Secure in knowing I was his inamorata, I sipped my cerveza and smiled, enjoying the show of his New Balance footwear flirting with her spiked heels.

Now three years later we were learning a new dance but without the sign up fee and monthly payment plan. When cancer first enters your house it tries to occupy every available space. It lurks in the sock drawer and behind the orange juice in the refrigerator. It tries to replace the normalcy that you once took for granted with fear and worry. Avoiding it and all its cronies requires delicate footwork, a combination of Anna Pavlova and Mohammed Ali.

I learned to step around it in the kitchen when making roasted vegetable soup in my stocking feet, toes pointed, chin up. Buz learned to outrun it on his treadmill, an occasional jete necessary to throw it off course. When it was heavy in the air we grew adept at ducking and dodging, drawing our elbows in close to our bodies and raising our closed fists when it came too close.

Unlike during our dance classes when we felt energized and often went to dinner afterward for an animated conversation, this dance drained our energy. There was no playfulness involved, no flirting and in the beginning when no one knew about the cancer it had to remain a secret dance. We had not mastered the complicated steps well enough to share it with family and friends. The learning process was exhausting so we stayed at home in our little cocoon to gather strength after our pas de duex. When saying its name was too painful we reverted to a silent adagio of embraces and clasped hands, nestling together in the folds of our bed.