On the street where you live

Call the police, yo, two posts in two nights!

Ok, this one my brain can't quite process yet. When I was in my chemo fog, back in the cancer dancing days, I drove down my little street to drop the girls off at school one rainy morning and in a car coming the other way I swore I saw my oncologist, Dr. A. But the red syringe of death plays tricks on your mind, y'all, so I chalked it up to diminishing brain cells.

Then a few months ago, Pete said he swore he saw Dr. A. on our street, near this house at the end of the road with a gigantic yard and fruit trees galore that Pete steals from regularly to get some bona fide organic apples for juicing. Dr. A has a pretty distinctive look - jutting eye teeth, Olive Oyl height and weight and that tight, short Victoria perm of a certain vintage - so I was inclined to believe him, but not quite prepared to.

Then just this past Saturday we were driving the girls to swimming and there she was, standing on the edge of the street where I live, near the place where I saw her driving and across from the house that Pete suspected she lived in. She was grinning like an idiot at us as we drove by but I just stared at her all Invasion of the Body Snatchers-like.

I mean, seriously? My onc lives on my street? I die.

I have this back story about why we moved to Victoria... my mom had been seriously sick a couple of times and I wanted my kids to be closer to my parents while they were still young old people. But two years after we moved, I got sick and my mom and dad took care of me and my kids while the intake board at the Cancer Agency read out my diagnosis and Dr. A, who could serenade me from her balcony, put up her hand to take my file and save my ever-loving life.

I am the least religious, spiritual, kismet, karma, fatalistic gal you'll ever meet, but goddess if that ain't somethin' else.