There is a quote in the book that sums up the craziness that you feel when diagnosed with cancer, "I began to realize that coming in such close contact with my own mortality had changed both nothing and everything." I don't know what next week, next month, or next year will bring, but I do know that I will still need to drag the garbage cans to the curb every Tuesday night regardless.
Last weekend was an unusually warm October day, and as I was splashing in the pool, I wondered if it would be my last swim. I tried to enjoy the sensations of the refreshingly cool water against the warm still air. Every fall, since I moved into my house 16 years ago, I have had a final swim of the season, but will this one be the final one ever? How do I preserve it, savor it, and make sure I have remembered every last drop of that day? The birds were chirping and the dogs were laying in the cool green grass, and I was trying desperately to hang onto that warm fall sunlight for as long as I could.
As much as I tried to stay in the moment, I found myself reflecting on the past few weeks. First, the trip down the Oregon coast with my sister, Tere. It was magical and empowering. As with our previous adventures, the weather was glorious, the scenery was stunning, and we managed to have our goofy 'you can't make this stuff up' moments to send me, upon reflection, into fits of giggles. (lets just say this time it involved a visit to a local recreational pot shop and leave it at that) My solo adventures are much more tame, and even when I was healthy, rarely did I venture into the unknown and unusual without a well thought out plan that I stuck to like crazy glue. Thankfully, My sister has enough strength and courage for the both of us and is always prepared to be unprepared. Until now, I hadn't realized how important it is to have someone in your life who can loan you these qualities, when yours are depleted or nonexistent.
Upon returning home, we were thrown into the unfolding drama that was to be the final days of life for my step-father, Byron. After a long and fulfilling 89 year existence, Byron was transitioning from this world to the next. The doctor said that he had a week to live, and true to his nature, he died exactly 7 days later-right on schedule. During those final days, Although Byron was not conscious, I would go and sit with him after work and hold his hand. At first his grip was strong, but it became weaker and weaker. I sat with him on the final evening before he died. He was resting peacefully and barely acknowledged my touch. I wondered if he was still with us on earth, or had his soul already moved on, shedding his well worn body.
I remember desperately wanting to know the unknowable answer to this question. In part, because I once woke up from an extraordinary dream. I rarely remember dreams, but I remember feeling like I was out of my body and I didn't want to go back in. I felt light, happy and full of energy, but as I eased my spirit into my wet, heavy, cold and clammy meat suit, it felt like a straight jacket in which I could barely move or breath. The sensation was so powerful that it was seared on my brain. I also remember that it was a few days after this vivid dream, that I emailed the doctor asking for a chest x-ray, knowing in the back of my mind that my life was about to change. It was the first time that I faced my fear of cancer.
After unburdening all of the heaviness of the last few weeks onto this blog page, I am now ready to crack open that rom-com! Here is a bit of the Oregon coastline.
