Read Cancer on Five Dollars a Day* *(chemo not included): How Humor Got Me through the Toughest Journey of My Life for Free Online Page B

to be in the courtroom down the hall. I’m getting a divorce. I hope you guys have better luck than I did.”
    I’d call that a sign. Missed it. A few months later we had that one annulled.
    Wedding number two. Las Vegas. We go for kitsch . We hit a wedding chapel and are hitched by an Elvis impersonator. Lot of “Love Me Tender” references flying around, but I should’ve known that this was a sign that we’d be impersonating a marriage. Couple years later, “Heartbreak Hotel.” Divorce.
    Wedding number three is the biggie. A sign here about as obvious as the burning bush, only, again, I don’t see it.
    This time we’re married by a rabbi. The ceremony is trucking along smoothly, no glitches. Everything’s cool until the rabbi, a world-class shrugger, tells me to break the glass, which is the final leg of the wedding ceremony, right before we kiss to seal the deal. I stomp on the hidden shot glass, a tiny mound swathed in a cloth napkin. Only the glass won’t break. I slam my foot down a second time. The glass feels like a lump of concrete under the heel of my leather shoe. Now I lift my knee as high as I can to crush the thing a third time as if I’m making wine. Nothing. By now, the wedding guests are laughing.
    “What happens if I can’t break the glass?” I ask the rabbi.
    He shrugs in concern. “You must break the glass. According to tradition, smashing the glass symbolizes destroying any bad luck that’s surrounding your marriage. You want to get rid of the Evil Eyes, don’t you?”
    I whisper, “You say Evil Eyes. I call them my in-laws.” Big-time rabbinical shrug, stifling a laugh this time. After a jab in my side from Vicki’s elbow, I say loud enough to get a laugh, “Rabbi, you wouldn’t happen to have some dynamite, would you?”
    I manage to crunch the glass on my fourth try. Everybody applauds, mostly from relief.
    Cut to today: my marriage wrecked, my body wracked with cancer. Should’ve realized that not being able to break that glass was a giant biblical sign.

    It’s early Tuesday afternoon by the time I get to my apartment. I’m feeling drained and dizzy. I wander through my apartment, a zombie, tossing the few remnants of my life in L.A. into my suitcase: some books and CDs, a couple of shirts, sweatpants, and framed photographs of my kids. One picture is of Derek and me. He’s sitting in my lap. I’m smiling and he’s laughing, no doubt at something silly I’ve said. He was always my best audience. I really believe his sense of humor helped him through his cancer treatments. It’s stunning when I think about it. Derek was happy most of the time. Even through the worst of it, the most debilitating and painful procedures, he managed to keep upbeat. I learned so much from him. So much. I caress his face in the photograph.
    And then I dial the phone.
    Melissa picks up on the second ring. I barely wait for her to answer. I speak breathlessly. I let out my words as gently as I can, but I know what I’m saying is striking her, hitting her like a bomb. For me, it’s yet another explosion in twenty-four hours of nonstop explosions. I hear myself acting, trying to make her believe such half-truths as “I’m too old for you,” “I’m not being fair to you,” “I want to try again with Vicki for the sake of the kids,” and the most bullshitty of all bullshit reasons, “I need space.”
    After I spew out my long goodbye, Melissa says nothing for what seems like an hour. Then she says, “This doesn’t even sound like you, Robert. I’m coming over.”
    Before I can argue or stop her, she clicks off. I stand stranded in my bare-bones living room, a stranger in my own skin, feeling beyond horrible, feeling suddenly sick, spent, exhausted. Within seconds it seems, my intercom buzzer echoes through the empty apartment.
    “Robert, let me in.”
    “Melissa, please understand,” I say through the intercom.
    “I have to end it. I have to.”
    “Why? I don’t get it. You’re