Apple Cinnamon Overnight Oats

Wednesday, April 19, 2017. The scan. The day I find out if the cancer is gone or if the cancer has been playing dead and is about to announce its return like a villain in a movie I didn't buy a ticket for.

I drove to St. Luke's at 7 AM. Scott offered to come. I said no. This was something I needed to do alone — sit in the waiting room alone, lie in the machine alone, wait for results alone — because the moment between the question and the answer is the most private moment a person can have, and I didn't want anyone watching me be that afraid.

The scan took forty-five minutes. I lay in the machine and breathed and counted ceiling tiles (there were none — it was a curved ceiling, which was inconsiderate of the architects, because counting ceiling tiles is how you survive medical anxiety). The technician was kind. Everyone is kind. Kindness is the currency of oncology departments — it's all they have to offer while you wait for someone to tell you whether you're going to live or die.

Dr. Reyes called at 4 PM. I was at the clinic, in the break room, holding my phone with both hands because the neuropathy makes one-handed phone holding unreliable and because I needed both hands to hold myself together. She said: "The scan is clear. No evidence of disease."

No. Evidence. Of. Disease.

Four words. Four words that weigh more than anything anyone has ever said to me, more than "I love you" and "it's a boy" and "it's a girl" and "the surgery went well" and "you may kiss the bride." Four words that mean: the cancer is gone. The treatment worked. Your body did the thing you asked it to do. You are, as of today, cancer-free.

I sat down on the break room floor — a different floor than the kitchen floor in September, but the same position, the same body, the same woman — and I cried. I cried the way I cried the night of the diagnosis, except in reverse: not from terror but from relief, not from grief but from gratitude, not from the feeling that life was ending but from the feeling that life was, in fact, continuing, stubbornly, persistently, against all the dark odds I'd calculated at 3 AM on my phone in the bathroom.

I called Mom. I said, "It's clear." She said nothing. I heard her breathe. Then she said, "Thank God." Then she hung up, because Diane. She called back in twelve minutes this time. She was composed. She said, "I'm making cinnamon rolls." This is how Diane Dawson processes miracles: she bakes.

I drove home. I picked up the kids. I made a cinnamon roll — not the whole batch, just one, from dough I'd frozen — the same ritual as the last day of chemo, the same one roll in a ramekin, warm, frosted, eaten alone at the kitchen table. But this time the cinnamon roll wasn't a wish. It was a fact. I am cancer-free. The cinnamon roll confirmed it. The cinnamon roll was the evidence.

Cinnamon has meant something different to me ever since that evening at the kitchen table — it’s the smell of proof, the smell of still being here. My mom reaches for a bowl of dough when the world cracks open; I reach for the spice jar. These apple cinnamon overnight oats aren’t the ramekin roll I made that night, but they carry the same quiet ceremony — you put them together the night before, in faith, and they are ready for you in the morning, warm and sweet and entirely ordinary in the way that only miracles can be.

Prep Time: 5 minutes | Chill Time: 8 hours (overnight) | Total Time: 8 hours 5 minutes | Servings: 1

Ingredients

1/2 cup old-fashioned rolled oats
1/2 cup milk of choice (whole, oat, or almond all work beautifully)
1/4 cup plain Greek yogurt
1 tablespoon chia seeds
1 tablespoon pure maple syrup, plus more for serving
3/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon, divided
1/4 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
Pinch of fine salt
1/2 medium apple (Honeycrisp or Fuji recommended), cored and finely diced, divided
Optional toppings: drizzle of honey, chopped toasted walnuts, a pat of almond butter

Instructions

Combine the base. In a mason jar or small lidded container, stir together the oats, milk, Greek yogurt, chia seeds, maple syrup, 1/2 teaspoon of the cinnamon, vanilla, and salt until fully combined.
Fold in the apple. Add half of the diced apple to the jar and stir gently to incorporate. The apple will soften slightly overnight and release just enough sweetness into the oats.
Refrigerate overnight. Seal the jar and refrigerate for at least 6 hours, or up to 3 days. The oats will absorb the liquid and thicken into a creamy, pudding-like consistency.
Finish and serve. In the morning, give the oats a good stir. If they seem too thick, loosen with a splash of milk. Top with the remaining fresh apple, a dusting of the remaining 1/4 teaspoon cinnamon, and a drizzle of honey or maple syrup. Serve cold, or warm in the microwave for 60–90 seconds if you want that cinnamon roll feeling.

Nutrition (per serving)

Apple Cinnamon Overnight Oats — The Morning After Everything Changed