My Turn: Icy days “It might be slippery,” he warns. “I think it’s icy,” he warns. “Watch your step.” “Get over. Way over. Further. The cars can’t see you,” he warns, as we round a bend in the road. “Cross over – people are coming,” he warns. He warns. He warns. We walk hand in hand these days with our un-pocketed worries and warning systems. It’s a new companion. It crept in somehow when no one was looking. It started for him, I’d guess, with a stage 4 diagnosis, a diagnosis that shocked; it didn’t seem possible. He was the one who was never sick, never took antibiotics, never felt the need to consult a doctor about anything. Then a small swollen lymph node appeared, noted one fateful Christmas morning by his visiting daughter. “Dad, you have to get this checked out,” she insisted. What followed was a month of tests, visits to Dana Farber, treatment decisions. And finally quiet. That word — “quiet.” Cancer becoming quiet but not, in this case, cured. So, we live with quiet. Regular check-ups, annual tests, a doctor we trust and quiet. Except for the noise. The internal clamor of worries and warnings. How unexpectedly slippery things can become. The black ice just under the snow. Unsuspected.