My kitchen phone became a part of my “housewife” adopted rhythm when I cooked.

My nostalgia always dreamed of me being functional in a traditional home. My kitchen wall phone with a long cord eight-foot cord allowed me to hold it with my chin while I cooked or walked around the kitchen doing my traditional boiling water for pasta or some time of cooking routine: Or cleaning the dishes to then put more dirty dishes in the sink in memorialization of our meal. This long phone cord accommodated me to fill my kitchen with conversations of distant friends, while I lived a suburban life; with my husband telling me when he would be home; with my kids saying they were eating at a friend’s house, or asking me if I could pick them up.

The phone was the communication system for the kitchen hub. Command central. My dominion.

When the phone rang, I happily answered it, but usually needed to turn down the sound on my small tv on the corner on my country French credenza that held pots and pans and dishes that only came out on special occasions. I devotedly watched my small BJ purchased TV while cooking, but made sure to keep the picture on so if I got bored on the phone I could read the news wire across the bottom of the image.

On a cold January Wednesday evening, my phone rang.

I answered it.

It was my doctor.

Nothing was the same after that phone call.