in some important ways

In some important ways, it's easier to be the driver. You know how aware you are of the stopped car in front of you; you've got it all under control. You see the black ice. You've already spotted the pedestrian. The passenger has to decide what to point out, and usually waits until she can't stand the suspense anymore -- this may be a matter of a second, but still, it's stressful.

And if the passenger is generally a more cautious driver herself, well, she might occasionally, reflexively, grab the armrest when the other person is at the wheel. The passenger's right foot may press the floor. Since the driver generally does have everything under control after all, the passenger has learned how to pretend she was going to shift toward the armrest anyway. She was going to take that sharp, deep breath. Ahhhh, that air feels good.

Laura is leaving her job in June and is going to work on her own. You know her. Laura, the major breadwinner in the house. The one who actually receives a paycheck at the same time each month.

The one whose job has provided us with healthcare.

I'm sure Laura, who is driving along singing "Ohh, Freedom! Ohh, Freedom!" at the top of her lungs, sees the nails scattered across the pavement, the flock of geese waddling through the traffic, and the mattress that just flew out of the car up ahead. But I, strapped into the passenger seat and nervously humming "buddy, can you spare a dime," am quietly gripping the armrest and taking lots of sharp, deep breaths.

It's not just money I'm worried about. I'm sure she'll find coaching and consulting gigs, and I'm sure we'll learn how to live without a paycheck. Hey! I was going to take that sharp breath anyway.

But the search for healthcare on our own has brought up old, dark, sad feelings for me. When Laura called USAA to inquire about their insurance (she qualifies because her dad was in the Air Force), she explained our relationship and my health situation.

Their response was, "Ma'am, we wouldn't touch paula until 10 years after the end of her treatment."

You know, you feel pretty vulnerable after a cancer diagnosis. Sort of forever, somewhere inside. The idea that this insurance company would rather insure a 65-year-old me than a 55-year-old-possibly-with-a-target-on-my-back me is hard to take in.

The dark feelings were right under the surface. How could I possibly have demonstrated more of a commitment to beating the cancer, beyond sacrificing both breasts? Did it matter to the insurance company that my nodes were clear? If that doesn't matter to them, does it matter to my prognosis? Why wouldn't the insurance company bet on me?  It stings that they bet on the cancer instead.

So we have some things to figure out, and you know how I feel about incomplete puzzles, incomplete anything. But I feel like I owe it to Laura to be as supportive as possible as she makes this long-awaited change in her life. If I decided I wanted to open up a practice on the moon, she would be supportive of me. She'd have her doubts, but she'd want me to have what I wanted. She'd also know I could charge a gazillion dollars for ten minutes of therapy to anyone who showed up in my office on the moon. She believes in me.

And the truth is, Laura has had to sit in the passenger seat, gripping the armrest, while I steer as carefully as I can through the creepy villages of Cancerland. It's been hard on her. I really do think that in some ways, it's harder for the families of people with cancer than for the cancer patient herself. Not in all ways, but in some really important ways.

It's Laura's turn to drive.