Change the only option

Saturday was the 25th anniversary of us moving into our current abode, and we recently finished a major renovation.

The symbolism is obvious: we had nearly a quarter-century of what in retrospect especially appears to be a stable, idyllic existence. We raised our children, established our careers, made friends and began to grow old together while living in this house.

Then the day I had to leave work in June because of cancer symptoms was also the date workmen started to dismantle the kitchen.

Things of course don't stay the same forever, either in life or in the house. Both will eventually deteriorate and in some cases will require some major work.

The house workmen, a diligent crew, pushed through a weekend at the urging of some of our friends, and were mostly finished by the time I returned home from Boston on July 2 following the cancer surgery, which was performed by a different kind of craftsman.

So our house has a new and improved kitchen, dining room and family room, while I have a newly rerouted digestive tract.

We know that the changes to our house are improvements and that my internal alterations give me a better chance to survive the cancer.

I would have preferred no changes at all - I thought the old kitchen with the old cabinets and the old countertops and old shallow sink was fine - but change, it seems, is inevitable.
Now if it were only as easy to cure cancer as it is to put in a new floor...