February 3rd was the one year anniversary of my cancer diagnosis. It’s the same day in 1959 that Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and the Big Bopper’s plane crashed in Clear Lake, IA. My uncle Gord used to call me “The Big Bobber” when I was a kid, which could have also referred to my large head for which my mother bought special shirts with buttons to expand the head-hole.

Lisa and I had talked about things to do on that day. Celebrating felt odd, not that there weren’t things to celebrate. I’d received the final set of results from the triptych of tests – CT scan, bloodwork, and colonoscopy – and everything is clear and good. I feel great and have started running (treadmill only – stupid weather), which I really, really enjoy. We’ve signed up for a 5K in March, then there’s the Ride For The Feast in May, which will mark my first century ride (100 miles in one day).

My last post garnered two cancer anniversary suggestions: eat a bowl of bran and buy a 50-year subscription to my favorite magazine. As worthy (and delicious) as those are, I feel like doing something that’s the exact opposite of what Lisa and I experienced that day (see the first handful of blog post for the blow-by-blow. Short-hand: OH FUCK, then a bunch of snow.)

Well, work and weather decided this for us. I had a trip to Chicago planned for work that week. The idea had been to fly back the evening of Wednesday, the 3rd, and maybe hit one of our local haunts for a much-deserved beverage. As the weather reports started hyping a killer storm approaching Chicago with the blunt force a 50-ton snow hammer, I extended my stay for another day. I usually don’t do hotels in Chicago and instead crash on the couch of my condo or with friends, but this time, I’d booked a room at the Hotel Monaco on Wabash for Tuesday night and simply extended it for another day. For some reason – karma, payback for the crap experience I’d had at another Kimpton property in Atlanta the week before (long story short: previous guest drank and refilled the opaque minibar beers with water. Lame and yuck.), or fate – was upgraded to a suite:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/69907266@N00/sets/72157625865971719/

So I rode out my cancerversary alone, trapped in a boutique hotel in downtown Chicago. I hit the local 7-11 for some beer and sat in a ginormous window seat the size of a twin bed and watched the thundersnow and lightning. Surreal. A year before, the two-fisted hit on Baltimore/DC was called Snowpocalypse. A lot of names were thrown around for what hit Chicago. Given the thundersnow’s vaguely Biblical/Fortian vibe, last year’s name is probably more apt for this storm. I’ll never call it this, but my favorite Chicago storm name was Snowtorious B.I.G.

Later, I went out in it and went to the Bean – the mirrored sculpture called Cloud Gate in Millennium Park –  which looked even more alien and otherworldly beanish in the blizzard. I wasn’t alone. Some poor soul in a yellow vest was there guarding it. I ducked into the passage the runs underneath it to catch a break from the snow. I wanted to take a picture, but I’d left my phone on the recharger in the room. So I took some pictures with my brain, then trudged back to the Monaco. Cold. Sad that my Lisa wasn’t with me or waiting for me in that awesome window seat at the hotel.  But mostly fortunate. For everything.