And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.
Well, actually, this week is pretty miserable. I have a back rib that has had a habit of falling out of place at very inopportune times, ever since I was 32 years old. It fell out a couple weeks ago, and I’ve done three visits to my lovely chiro, who pounces on me to put it back. It obeys, and then after I’m clear of the chiro office, it sneaks back out again.
I woke up today barely able to move. I can’t put my right arm out in front of me without it causing my back to go into such an intense spasm, it squeezes my lungs. My left arm can’t go behind me without the same result. Consequently, typing is very difficult.
So I’m going to skip this week, as every other word I type is accompanied by a shriek of pain. Instead, I’m going to post a favorite from the original year of this blog, Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News. In 2017, I challenged myself to write this blog every single freaking day. I didn’t know at the time that my year would be hit with my husband losing his job twice, my daughter would be so bullied, we’d have to move her to a new school, and I would be diagnosed with breast cancer. Hey, when I take on a challenge, the challenge takes on me!
The result, after the year, was my book, Today’s Moment Of Happiness Despite The News, A Collection of Spontaneous Essays. I’m going to post my favorite one here today.
Here’s to a Moment of Happiness tomorrow!
8/17/17
And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.
Today, I realized that, in the middle of all this hot mess breast cancer, I forgot my daughter.
And in that realization, I just wanted to wave the white flag and fall to my knees.
My daughter and I walked her schedule at her new high school again today. School starts tomorrow. It was partway through our walk-through that I realized.
“Olivia,” I said, “what time does school get out?”
“3:05,” she said.
When I had to work with the Cancer Center to set up my 20 days of radiation, I gave them a window of 1 to 5. My writing time. My meditation time. But radiation needs to be done. I worked it around classes. I worked it around clients. The majority of my appointments were set at 3:30.
I forgot about Olivia. I forgot about school.
For a 3:30 appointment, I have to check in at 3:15. There is no way her final bell can ring at 3:05, she can pack up and run out, and I can get her home and then be at the Cancer Center by 3:15.
And it was about then my overwhelm valve blew.
Oh, this week. What a dose of reality. All along, I was told radiation was easy. Just lay down for ten minutes a day. Meditate. Take a nap. Simple!
It’s not easy.
Every day, I face that machine. Every day, I lay there while everyone else runs from the room to avoid what the machine is doing to me. Destroying unhealthy tissue and healthy tissue to make sure that unhealthy tissue can’t come back. And every day, I have to face, for ten minutes, this new reality. Cancer invaded my life.
Every day, I walk under a sign that says Cancer Center. And I see people wearing baseball caps and head scarves. People who look like they would wisp in a fan-breeze down the hallway if the nurse didn’t anchor them by the arm. I heard one woman coming before I even saw her – her breathing sounded like she was underwater. I heard her breathe past me and I heard her breathe down the hall.
I tell myself every day how lucky I am.
But then today, I realized I forgot my own daughter in the middle of this hot mess breast cancer.
The technician came to get me. Her name is Denise. She started to say, “Hey, Kathie, how are –“ and then I looked at her. In an instant, she was holding me, rocking me, and I just completely blew apart. That’s not something I do. The other technician came in and hugged and rocked me from behind and I became the stuffing in a huge comfort sandwich. My own Orange Oreo, though I was wearing gray.
When Denise asked me what was wrong, I still couldn’t find my voice. I just motioned around the room. And she said, “It’s just all this, isn’t it.”
Yes. Just all this. And then I said, “I forgot my daughter! How could I forget my daughter!”
And I was sandwiched again. There was no hurry. There was no glancing at the clock, even though I’m sure I messed up their schedule. There was just soothing and comfort and compassion and care. And lots and lots of kleenex.
And then they left the room so I could be zapped. I watched Xappa move around me and hum and I felt remainder tears roll from the corners of my eyes, over my temples and into my ears. I thought of the woman with the drowning lungs and I wondered if that’s where her tears went.
As I was helped off the table, Denise said, “You didn’t forget your daughter. You never ever would. You’re just full to the brim right now. It will get better. This will be over. You’re okay.”
And she hugged me again. Which was just what I needed. That hug pulled me back together. At least for now.
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.
