Too Late for a Different Assignment?

This morning, after my husband left, wracking sobs came pouring out from deep inside my being and it took a long time for them to subside.  What trigger?  Those little moments that randomize in dreams, a concerned look from my infusion nurse yesterday, chemo coursing through my brain and playing havoc with my emotions…I really don’t know.  Seemed like a poor start to a day.

But…then I did banking, took and passed my AARP tax preparer test that I have been prepping for and avoiding avoiding avoiding, in spite being perverse (word of my day) enough to enjoy tests, finished a quilt that was to be my first when I purchased the fabric in August 2002, and cut out fabric from an actual pattern to make a top that is my first in years since my quilting and curtain forays. Took a lazy Januagray stroll on the beach, absorbing the surf sounds and low tide smells and slate-like colors, watching the sun try to penetrate the clouds on its winter path through the sky.  Picked warm roasted chicken right off he carcass and slurped it down, mmmm.  Invited folks to breakfast later this week  which is now my favorite entertainment meal, nice china, perking coffee (which I don’t drink but inhale deeply), linen tablecloth and napkins, silver flatware…yes, it is a real pleasure. Those sobs seem far away this evening.

On this 20+ year cancer journey, whether in my early days when a cure seemed probable, in the middle years when I fought with the worst chemicals ever and clung to hope, and now trying to keep cancer quiet but no longer fighting for a cure but hanging on, struggling for another year while hoping to make a difference in my days.

People on the outside looking in have often asked me how I keep positive, how I stay strong, how I cope.  They did not see me sobbing this morning, but were there when I did some charity volunteering or taught through my chemos or smiled because the sunshine felt so good or I was surrounded by the beauty of creation or the beauty of the created in my life, my children.  I don’t know how I would ever do this journey without my faith in God, without the presence of warm hugs from my Lord, without angels at the corners of my bed, without prayers in my veins.  After talking with a co-worker years ago who wanted to know how I was doing what I was doing with such good spirit, it seemed to me that my cancer was becoming my life’s witness.

Which, honestly, made me want to go up to God and say, “Hey, can you give me another assignment, please?  Can’t I be a witness without cancer?  I’d love to do the Peace Corps or something else.”  I am not saying God gave me cancer as a way to witness to my faith, but all things work to good in my life.  I’ll try.

I like to be irritable about my cancer sometimes.  I like to mourn the graduations, the weddings, the baptisms, those important events in the lives of those I love.  Maybe it’s the little things, like walks in the woods, picnics in the mountains, snuggles on the couch, and silly games together (that I want to win because I am competitive) that I will miss, although when I am gone I can’t really miss them, but I can rue the fact that these special times are finite. I like to be philosophical and consider all the positive things that cancer has forged in my character and my understanding.

Before my dad died of cancer, he would tell my mother how much he would miss her when he was gone.  Which wasn’t logical, of course, but was so True.

Fomenting Discontent…or let sleeping dogs sleep!

Just a very short-timer blogger I am.  Once the idea  to blog about stage four life percolated for a while, I believed that having a somewhat anonymous place to air the raw-side of my emotions and fears and rants about stage four cancer would be therapeutic. When talking with friends and family (and sometimes total strangers), it is a blend of candid speaking and tip-toe-ing as I select the words to share what’s going on health-wise and emotionally with me. While my cancer seems to doze, my feelings are not always so inclined.

Now I am not so sure that dredging up, examining, and exploring my feelings is good.  Or therapeutic. I am not known for suppressing my emotions (ask my husband about my outbursts), but this feels a little like making rootbeer. (A family tradition going back to the 1930’s, but I digress) Water, sugar, rootbeer extract, and then some yeast to get fermentation going and a warm place to let those yeast fester out of control. After I write a blog, like my holiday meltdown, it ferments in my brain for a long time, growing like yeast and bubbling out of control like root beer until something that I could have dismissed as silly or insignificant has taken on a life of its own.

When I was little (well, let’s say pre-adolescent) and was upset about something in our family or my parents’ decisions, etc, I found it easiest to write them a letter about the gross injustice or wrong I had suffered at their hands, totally my perception.  I was usually quite emotional as I wrote, and I wish I had one of those letters because I think it would be hilarious to read today.  Most, but not all, of those letters were delivered.  Most, but not all, were treated with respect.  I learned to think of writing as a way to process and resolve problems and issues.  I still do.

I want my stage four struggles to be processed, to be aired, but then let go.  To nap undisturbed a little longer, to settle quietly as an issue no longer worth time to fuss about, to be quiet like my cancer, blessedly, is now.  And let me simply live.