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Sunday, November 30, 2014

Post-traumatic Newlywed Syndrome...

My man moved in on Halloween 2013, and we had Thanksgiving, our wedding, a honeymoon, my birthday, and Christmas, then New Year's, 2014, and the spring semester started, with both of us teaching, and then: screeching brakes. At the end of January, the plans we had to kick back and relax after the fun whirlwind were swept up into another whirlwind, a scary one, one with mortal coils, spirals of fear and worry. Cancer is confusion, and irony, and self-blame, and vulnerability. It is also the strangest gift, one that keeps on giving: the most ordinary days and events become rewards and blessings, grace sprinkled on generously, with light and warmth, and unmitigated joy.

The past few weeks, at last post-treatment, have been filled with a flurry of delayed newlywed gratification. We have moved furniture, and spackled, and shopped for paint, and painted, and today, we went to IKEA. This sounds like trite, consumeristic nonsense. But for the past months, though I pushed myself to do many, many things that had to be done in spite of the hideous treatments, I could not rally the physical or psychological energy to go up to IKEA and make my home better suited for three of us, no matter how often I thought of it, gazing longingly at the catalog and website.

Today, we drove there, roamed around the maze of color and texture, laughed about ourselves and people there, ate gravlax, hoisted flat-pack, braved the snail checkout, and put it all in the car. Today, I stopped dozens of times to feel the rush of lucky roll over me because I don't think it would ever have been possible to enjoy the divine ordinary of a trip to IKEA if I hadn't gotten cancer. Today, ambling through with dear husband, planning rooms to comfortably hold us all, making a home, making a life, just like normal newlyweds, was a hard earned gift.

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Joy to the world, all the boys and girls...

My slightly scatty ability to self-analyze seems to detect a liminal shift in my stage of cancer recovery. I'm rapidly approaching delirious joy, though I will try to keep the delirious part dialed down. It may be some kind of post-chemical/radiated response of my body and brain, but honestly: colors are brighter, music and words more moving, air smells amazing, cooking and eating bring pure pleasure, and everyone is beautiful. Not just in their own way; really beautiful. Cranky people who formerly drove me nuts are simply not, even when they are selfish and neurotic; I figure they need a smile even more than most. If my son has dropped to a B+ in English, so be it - this fall, he learned to be a distance runner who constantly improved his time, and now he is busy living his dream of being in a pit orchestra for a musical; he can pull up his grade later. But most of all, he is beautiful: a fully formed human who came to earth via me, and light shines out of him. My husband is beautiful, heart and soul; light shines from him, too, and music. My friends and family are better than any riches on earth, and they are beautiful, light shining from them all, lighting my way through this adventure, this life.

My gratitude for life is off the charts, and this joy, should it prove sustainable, may be more powerful than the Tamoxifen, could be the secret to long term cancer survival, learned late in life, but better late than never.