It was spring, 2004, and our passports were back, each one with a full-page Syrian visa.  We had already given notice on our apartment in Vancouver, and packing and planning were in full swing.  Anticipation of a five-month sojourn in Syria was running high.

The departure date was less than a month away, when I went to see my dentist about what I thought was a nasty-looking canker sore.  One glance and he referred me to an Ear, Nose and Throat specialist.  The E.N.T. doctor looked concerned, ripped out some of the infected tissue and said, “I will let you know in a few days.”

Stepping out to who knows where?

Stepping out to who knows where?

“It’s cancer – oral squamous cell carcinoma,” said the doctor.  “We will need to run tests to determine the extent of the tumour in your mouth, and to see if it has spread to your neck or chest.”

Shock!  Unbelief!  Devastation!  Now what?

For the life of me, I can’t understand why this test is called positive if it shows you have cancer.  To me, that’s about as negative as you can get!

At 56 years old, I had been in good health, but had sadly neglected my teeth and needed more than 10 crowns.  At US$125 each in Syria, we could save a lot by going there for the treatment.  Not only that, it would also give us an opportunity to actually live in a foreign culture.

Besides, we had fallen in love with Syria.  As soon as we stepped off the bus that had worked us through the maze of Turkish and Syrian border bureaucracy two years earlier, the men who leaned out of car and truck windows shouting, “Vil-comme to Syria!” (many Germans holiday there) set the tone for the memorable three weeks that followed.

Now, it appeared life was off in another direction . . .

NEXT