Thursday, May 31, 2018

Thoughts and Prayers




3 years ago I sat on my front porch and cried.
I had been diagnosed with cancer at the age of 45.

Forty.
Five.

I was terrified of my future.
The husband sat next to me in shock, witness to my panic.

"I can't die.
Not yet."

I declared it to him.

"I am NOT done (with the teenage boy)!
I have to at least get him through high school.
I need to see him graduate.


He still needs a mom."





3 weeks ago that teenage boy (man?) made me laugh.
We reminisced about the last few years.
We talked about his upcoming graduation.

I told him how proud I was of him and how hard he had worked.
He told me of his plans, his dreams, his future.
We remembered his high school experiences.
We remembered his accomplishments.
I teared up a bit, thankful I was still here.
I appreciated that moment.

He said, casually,  "But mom, don't forget about the best thing about me graduating.
Don't forget about my most important high school accomplishment."

I chuckled and said, "Oh, what is that?"




"I never got shot."






My son said that to me.

My baby boy, born 3 weeks early said that to me.
My toddler boy,  my little boy, my teenage boy, my adult son....


...he said that to me.





"I never got shot."


















It was one of those moments that,
perhaps literally,
broke my spirit.

My soul cracked.



He was joking about it.
But he wasn't.

We tried to laugh about it.
But we couldn't.


"Come on mom, in this day and age, that has to count for something."' he said,
trying to lessen the impact
that was obvious
on my face.


I'm very much aware that danger is everywhere and bad things can happen anywhere at any time.
But this is about what is forefront in your brain. This is about being afraid.

This is about walking out the door, backpack slung over your back, homemade sandwich tucked in the third pocket. Pencils sharpened.  Homework done, organized in the first pocket. This about saying goodbye to your mom.


This is about your mom fighting cancer, hoping to see you graduate from high school.
This is about walking out of your home, 17 days before you graduate from high school,
grateful that you haven't been shot there.


This is about wondering which one was the bigger threat.






There's a lot of life left,
for the boy and I, we hope.

He has a few days left of high school.
We both have a lifetime of needing to
walk out the door, without fear.

We would appreciate your
thoughts and prayers.

We've heard that's the solution.

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Waking. Middle Aged. With Pet.






It was dark outside 
when the husband leaned in close
and whispered 
in my ear.



I was laying in the preferred position.
I was on my stomach, which I knew, made it as flat as a supermodel's stomach.
My right arm was stretched out above my head and my hand
was numb, dead, completely asleep.

One leg was outside the covers, just a little bit too cold.
One leg was inside the covers, just a little bit too hot.
And then, suddenly, it was 2000 degrees in the bedroom.
I threw all of the covers off of me.
5 minutes later I would pull them back.
Because the room would be freezing.

I turned my head and my cheek landed in
the wet drool spot on the pillow.
I turned my leg and soon
regretted that extra set of
lunges from the day before.

It had been a good sleep, relatively speaking, of course.
I only woke up once to pee.
I then only worried about
three things that I had
absolutely no control over
before
I

finally

fell back asleep

....27 minutes before the alarm went off.

It was a solid 5 hours of restless tossing.




The husband had to go to work.
The alarm went off at 4:40.
He showered, went downstairs and ate the Cheerios.
He surveyed the living room as he
made his way back upstairs.

He saw the things that he saw.
And he kept on walking.


He innocently brushed his teeth.
He casually turned off the bathroom light.
He approached the bed, with hesitation.
He approached the content and peaceful

(anxious, hellishly hot, restless, sore, numb, wet-cheeked) 

sleeping woman.

He wanted to say goodbye.



The kind, well-intentioned husband leaned in close and whispered in my ear.
He rubbed my shoulder gently and kissed me softly, apologetically.
I did not respond with enthusiasm in a futile attempt to avoid
the inevitable full wake up that was coming.

But he felt obligated to give a proper farewell.


'I'm leaving.  Do you want me to reset the alarm?" he generously purred.

"No, I'm getting up," I grumbled.

"Ok.

Well.

Um.


............just to let you know,



The cat has thrown up
all over the couch.

It's pretty nasty."


I swear he screamed it in my ear.
He remembers whispering those words, somehow, in the most romantic way possible.

I remember my paralyzed, resigned silence.

He quivered in fear, awaiting my response.
Or maybe, he just finished putting his shoes on.

I swear I heard his sigh of relief as he ran out the door.







The husband went to work.
I cleaned up the nasty.
He pretended to feel bad.
I pretended to feel put out.

We laughed about it at dinner.
Well, he mostly laughed about it at dinner.
It took me another day.
Because it was super nasty.
I wasn't done gagging, yet.

But eventually, I managed a chuckle.

Because that's what you do
when you've been married 29.43 years
and you are not young anymore
and you have a pet that likes to ralph all over the place.



You just have to laugh.

Every day.