And Yet the Morning Comes

This lady has stage 4 breast cancer and it has spread.  This is fear I always have in the back of my mind.  For now we have caught it, but what if it comes back with a vengeance?  I try not to worry or think about it.  Live in the moment. 

"Each day is different. Each moment, too.
It still seems surreal, this diagnosis of breast cancer.
It’s strange how quickly the horrific can become regular: the chemo, the side effects, the new routines.
Oncology appointments, IV infusions, medication refills all start to fill my calendar.

I start making lists of things I need to do. I prioritize them.
It’s not always about what’s actually the most important, it’s also about finding things that bring me small moments of joy.
The small moments are the ones that bring tears to my eyes.
I still lose my temper. I still yell sometimes. Often it’s misplaced anger, a manifestation of my frustration with my situation.
I haven’t suddenly turned into the world’s most patient person. Sometimes cancer makes me the most impatient one, in fact. I feel the clock is ticking. I don’t have time for nonsense. But that’s not a way to be. I will still try to be better.

I try to be the one to do things with my children as much as I can. Even if there is family in the house. I still save artwork and photographs and remind them to brush their teeth and clean their rooms.
I try to do the little things: helping with a school project and homework. I go to the grocery store and I work on the holiday card.
I don’t ever have a moment that I forget about my cancer. I think that’s the part about it being new. Even when I was diagnosed  — even after I finished chemo and surgery and all of it– it still took at least a year for me to be able to push the daily fear down.

And yet, the morning comes.

I see the light of day and I get out of bed. I see the faces of my children. I kiss my husband goodbye when he leaves for work. Each day I have is a day that matters. Each day is one to make a memory with my family and friends. Each day is one more than I had the day before. But let’s be clear: there is no joy in this disease. My appreciation for my days should not be interpreted as supporting the nonsensical idea that “cancer is a gift.” There is nothing positive about this disease; I would give it back if I could. I did not need cancer to show me the value of things. I always knew these things were true. I never took them for granted. I knew what demons could be lurking.

I did all I could. It was not enough to keep it at bay. But maybe, just maybe, I can keep it at bay for a while.
I still haven’t fully come to terms with what this diagnosis means, but that’s because there’s no real way to know. We don’t know enough yet. It is the uncertainty that is the most difficult part for me. Will this chemo be the one that lasts for a while? Will it fail? When? What next? How long will that one last? My body holds the answers, but it’s not showing its hand yet.
I have to learn to ride this roller coaster. I’m just not there yet. And I don’t really know how long that is going to take.

I walk past people on the street and know they have no idea what is going on inside my body.
People in front of me in line at the gas station don’t know there’s chemo in my purse.
I look like everyone else. I have hair on my head. I ask the checkout person to pack the bags light because I can’t carry anything with my left arm now (the cancer has fractured two ribs on my left side).
Sometimes I want special treatment. I want a Get Out of Jail Free card. Most of the time, however, I want to stay home. Hide out. Be invisible. I’m still processing. Reeling. But while I’m doing that I’m living."