The Ticking of Time
News that you have an incurable disease changes the way clocks work around you. Moments turn into days- some fly by, and others drag on for hours at a time. Moments quickly turn into weeks and suddenly the seasons are changing. The air is a little crisper, the sun is not as fierce. It has been 36 days since we learned the cancer had relapsed. In the moments that have made up the last 36 days, my emotional headspace has shot back and forth like a pinball between the highest of highs and the basin of the valley in the shadow of death. The moments of joy are so pure and feel ornately captured- like a perfectly-blown bubble that can't be popped. I feel like I am quickly becoming a collector of these memories; the more bubbles I can keep intact, the more complete I feel like I am living each day.
There are moments where I feel empowered, strong, unstoppable. I CAN beat this cancer. I WILL live a long and full life. And then there are seconds. fleeting thoughts. nightmares.
Not only have I been measuring and scoring my days by these moments, I have found myself reflecting on the last 2 years. It has been {insert the time} since my last chemotherapy. I was {cancer free} for almost a year. My scans were clean for {11 months}. These moments have also been met with painfully beautiful, full of sadness reunions. Nurses that held my hand in the height of the pandemic as we faced this cancer the first time around have met me with the biggest of hugs and eyes filled with tears. As strong as our connections were the first time around, it is a mutual understanding that we lovingly never want to see the other again. Yet here we are. My 17th infusion was 18 months (to the hour) from my 16th infusion. My 16th infusion was supposed to be my last. Yet, exactly 18 months later, I found myself in a similar Barca lounger trying to prod and cajole the same veins to be available to receive life-saving poison.
I am a stubborn cancer patient. I made it 17 infusions before I had to get a port. For the record- the port makes life 100 million times easier. I should have done it the first time. A lot of pain and suffering would have been saved. I also made it a point to live my "normal" life in the days following my first chemo treatment. This decision had catastrophic repercussions. I went from being totally "fine" to not being able to get out of bed. The light in my house made it too painful to open my eyes. I missed my second round- my body didn't have enough time to recover.
As the days grow shorter, it becomes increasingly more apparent that time is either firmly fixed on the fast-forward button, or it has pressed pause and allowed me to capture the moment(s) in their purely beautiful entirety. This time- I pray I can give myself more grace. More grace to rest, more grace to pause, and let the days slow down around me instead of willing them to speed up as we search for a decided plan and answers.