Standing Still
I am standing still, afraid to move forward.
Today is the day that Jim gets his first scan since he was originally diagnosed with cancer in December. It has been 4 rounds of chemo treatments, one extended, and approximately 50 days of skiing for Jim. I've been the tag along, the note taker, the researcher and reader, the worrier. Jim has been energetic, determined, joyful, and gracious. I've learned a lot from him about resiliency and have been constantly awed by him through this all.
This is also the last week of me being 60 - and the last week of Lent - when Christ is tried, tortured and murdered and then rises - from nails and ashes to light and eternal life. I can really relate to that story in new ways now. Chemo is a type of trial and torture - but one that connects the patient to truly loving hospital staff. On the other hand, Easter will also be April Fools Day and I do feel like this is some twisted sort of joke or mistake.
Still, I'm not in a Spring-like, celebratory mood. 60 (much like my 57th year which I thought would be great because I was born in 1957 - but wasn't because both of my parents died) has been a real downer even though the number originally meant nothing to me and I wasn't anticipating the year to end the way it has. There has been marvelous glimmers of joy this year such as Tegan and my trip (finally) to Europe, or Jim's summer deck building, and the deeper connection to Jim's son Pat, partner Emily, and their little firecracker daughter, our granddaughter who turns 3 this coming month, Satori!
However the words "stage 4 cancer" have cast me in a foul mood I can't seem to shake. I still have the terrifying images from his first scan searing my mind. I am afraid of today's scan. I am afraid of what this new year will bring.
What I am grateful for is how family and friends have gathered around. You have held on to us and baked love in. In my darkest hours, I wrap my soul in your love, prayers, thoughts, hugs, and actions. Together with Jim's indomitable spirit, you lift me up so that I can see the stars shining in the burnt cobalt sky and I am reaching for hope.
Today is the day that Jim gets his first scan since he was originally diagnosed with cancer in December. It has been 4 rounds of chemo treatments, one extended, and approximately 50 days of skiing for Jim. I've been the tag along, the note taker, the researcher and reader, the worrier. Jim has been energetic, determined, joyful, and gracious. I've learned a lot from him about resiliency and have been constantly awed by him through this all.
Still, I'm not in a Spring-like, celebratory mood. 60 (much like my 57th year which I thought would be great because I was born in 1957 - but wasn't because both of my parents died) has been a real downer even though the number originally meant nothing to me and I wasn't anticipating the year to end the way it has. There has been marvelous glimmers of joy this year such as Tegan and my trip (finally) to Europe, or Jim's summer deck building, and the deeper connection to Jim's son Pat, partner Emily, and their little firecracker daughter, our granddaughter who turns 3 this coming month, Satori!
What I am grateful for is how family and friends have gathered around. You have held on to us and baked love in. In my darkest hours, I wrap my soul in your love, prayers, thoughts, hugs, and actions. Together with Jim's indomitable spirit, you lift me up so that I can see the stars shining in the burnt cobalt sky and I am reaching for hope.
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