I have done a good job (I think) of staying focused on the present, on enjoying each day as it comes, on not letting the awful truth of my prognosis interfere with my ability to appreciate all I am blessed with, on reminding myself of all that I have been privileged to experience since my diagnosis 17 years ago, on still making plans - even though I know they may change. Now if I can only get everyone else to do the same.
On Thanksgiving, my brother Bruce had an awful breakdown, sobbing uncontrollably in the kitchen while I held him and tried to comfort him. "You have no idea," he kept saying, "how much you mean to me." I could hear the pleading in his voice, the unsaid "Don't leave me," the anguish felt by a man who has already lost one sister, the one NOT his favorite. "I think about it all the time," he cries and I know the "it" is my cancer, my unforgiving and unstoppable cancer that leads to only one destination, one my brother desperately wishes wasn't happening. I try to remind him that there is no telling what kind of time I have left - I have already beaten so many odds that anything may be possible. I urge him to appreciate the time that IS left so that we don't waste time grieving before it is actually time to grieve. I tell him that, at least most of the time, I am happy and at peace and that I'd like him to be too. I hug him tightly and tell him I love him and I ask him to please, please not be sad. At least not right now.
Warren, poor Warren, with whom I just cannot discuss my disease because he's my sanctuary from all that reality, he is lost when it comes to dealing with me because my mood changes constantly depending on my emotions at the moment. As we were putting out our Christmas dishes, he commented that we should increase our service for 8 to a service for 12 so that we can leave each of the kids a set. My reaction - he's already divvying up my stuff and I'm not even dead yet (yeah, yeah, technically it's "our" stuff but really, as the wife, it's all mine right)? I know that's not what he meant. I also know that in part (subconsciously at least) it is what he meant.
And as the other day Taryn watched me dance around the house to "The Little Drummer Boy" (although truth be told, "dance" is a strong word for the weirdly awkward combination of ballet and modern dance that constituted my movements), tears formed in her eyes and even though we didn't talk about it I know she was thinking of a time when she will never see me dance again.
Oh how I wish I could magically erase the fact that I have cancer from their minds. Because I don't know the right words to say it's OK to live, live, live and joyfully so. I don't know how to convince those I love that living for today doesn't mean ignoring the harsh reality of tomorrow - after all, I am guilty sometimes of shoving that tomorrow in their faces. It just means letting go of what tomorrow means when that reality inevitably intrudes so that we never lose sight of the blessings of today.
My brother was crying - but I still got to hug him. My husband was insensitive - but I love him no less. My daughter was tearful - but still got to see me smile. Awesome gifts all. Please - everyone - live for today.
Blessings and Love to All.
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