Topic: Shadows.
It turned out to be a red herring. But we all expected much worse.
Our lives froze after we received the call. It sounded as though it came back, despite all of our efforts. I was mostly in shock. And after the initial numbness wore off, all I could do was worry.
I don’t know how to describe how serious it was. Actually, I don’t know how I can express just how serious it became to me.
Up to now, I had a vague understanding of dying - person stumbles, becomes still, doesn’t breathe…gets buried. Pretty much like how Hollywood shows it.
But I never understood what it feels like to be dying. I do now.
Maybe it sounds presumptuous of me, maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I still don’t even know what it feels like to die.
But it was close enough. Too close.
We discussed my options. If it came back, I wouldn’t seek any further treatment. I’d go back to Williams, then if I managed to survive the year…to go travel. If it was another cancer, then…I could either choose to fight or to let go.
I didn’t think too much about the latter. And I hope I never will have to.
But I did think about what it would be like to return, knowing that I was terminally ill. I didn’t feel angry, though I did feel regret.
Regret knowing that I’d never be able to receive my college diploma, to attend my friends’ weddings, to know who I would have married, to buy presents for my children or my niece’s/nephew’s birthdays, to see myself in the professional field, to see my hair grow white, to understand what it means and feels like to grow older…and a million other little things in between.
I’d miss brushing my teeth, bumping into objects and things, pulling out the chair to sit at the table, writing a letter with a pen, listening to my friends on the phone, feeling water splash my face, eating candy on a rainy day, listening to my family and relatives chatter…seeing, feeling, touching, smelling, tasting, and hearing all the things I do every day.
I don’t know what it’d be like to lie cold beneath the ground or incinerated into a cajillion little pieces of fluff.
And I’m afraid.
There is too much life in me, and too much life I haven’t and want to experience. How much longer do I have? I feel as though I’m living by a “good till” basis - like the expiration dates you see on milk carton.
With every set of scans I pass, I have a 3-4 months reprieve. But the cycle will start again, and my worries will surface once more.
5 years (until I’m officially declared a “long term survivor”) sounds awfully long to me.
