I can’t decide if keeping track of our life in days is relevant any longer. We passed the 6 month/Day 180 mark without even a nod. I looked back at my calendar to see what we did on Day 180 and all it says is “Recycling.” I think we did, in fact, put out the recyclables that day. I wish I could climb through a wormhole to 6pm on July 20th and whisper to my crumbled, shaking self,”Six months from now, the most exciting thing that will happen in your day is that you will take out the recyclables. Shhhhh. She will be alive in your arms in six months. The day will be so boring that you won’t even realize you have six months under your belt.”
I look back at myself – my old self that existed before July 20th. I look at pictures from our old life and they are not real. We never existed in that place without leukemia. Those 17 months were a dream and I’m not sure that I was ever that mom. There I am, sitting on the bed, brushing Elsa’s sweet straggly hair and sniffing the crook of her neck. Here, let me try that wormhole again: “Stop!” I yell. “She’s sick! She is going to be so sick!”
I don’t just try to move back in time, either. When I’m not gazing at photos of my old self, I’m desperately trying to peer around the corner, into the future. I’m horrified at the thought of being caught so unawares again. If I adequately prepare myself for every possible outcome, then my future self will never have to look back morbidly on my old self and say, “Poor girl. She never knew what was coming.”
Six months in and all I’ve got to show for it is an obsession with wormholes. No, No. We have so much more to show for it. That’s just not fair to say.
Now, I feel like I need to valiantly defend myself here against an onslaught of criticism (which, by the way, I realize is, largely, in my own head). I know I’m supposed to live in the moment. That’s what cancer does: It wakes you up every morning, hammering your brain with a litany of, “Enjoy this day because I could take it away any moment, ya know.” I realize that I cannot dwell on our past or all the unknown possibilities in our future. I also know that I’m not supposed to get caught up in the stories of other, sicker children. Truly, it is unfair to those children and their families for me to waste our good fortune. I know! I am drowning in the guilt that comes with this knowledge. I know. I know. I know.
It’s just that, while I’m sniffing her sweet fuzzy head, I’m always keeping a look-out for any sinister goings-on in there. I’m always half expecting my future self to materialize, wide-eyed in front of me, whispering urgently, “Stop! Look! Hold her tighter while you can.” I want to ask my future self if we will get out of this unscathed. Will we get to keep her? Five years from now, will my greatest concern be that John take out the recyclables the night before so that we don’t miss the truck?
Back through the wormhole she goes. Questions unanswered.
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Ugh! Why does this always happen? I, truly, intended to log on and type the following:
Hi friends! No news is good news! This week has been wonderful and we are greatly enjoying our chemo vacation. The worst news we have to report is that Elsa is two-years old and, thus, driving us totally insane with normal two-year old stuff.
Instead, I started rifling through old, unfinished posts and found the one above. I remember when I originally wrote those ideas, some months ago, I had run it by John before publishing (which I rarely do). His reply was, “All that talk of your different selves sounds confusing,” so I abandoned it for awhile. Today, I got lost in those old thoughts and ended up writing a significantly more melancholy update than I had originally intended.
See, I’ll prove it to you. Look at us this week; It was great!
