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Let's Talk Cancer, Part 2

 

When I look back at the early days of John's diagnosis, it seemed like an emotional cake walk compared to what the next 5 years would hold. Of course, it was a shock finding out my husband had stage IV cancer, but it wasn't unexpected. Everyone in his family dies of cancer, and some young, at 50, like his dad and uncle. John warned me when we met that he'd likely die from cancer at 50, so a cancer diagnosis at 55? Yep, kinda figured.

I started living my life in 3-month increments. Three months of treatment, three months until the next scan, three months before the next surgery. Can't make plans for a concert six months from now because he might be sick, or worse, gone. 

I started cleaning out the house, throwing things away, selling furniture I didn't need or want, all in anticipation of having to move as John got sicker. Material things held no interest for me. What's the point of a new watch or the latest gadget when your spouse is dying? It'd be just one more thing I'd have to pack.

I started planning for our eventual move to Oregon. Dad has graciously offered to have us move in with him at the end stage, if it came to that. I'd been there for him when Mom died, and he wanted to return the favor, I guess. 

I started Zoloft. The light gray skies I'd learned to live under had turned a dark, ominous black and I couldn't see my way out of it. I went to therapy because I needed to unload the thoughts screaming in my head, and friends can only take so much. She told me to take my dog to the park and watch Ellen. Really, Ashley? I just talked about the impending death of my husband and you think watching Ellen dance will solve the problem?

I saved myself the $30 copay and quit Ashley. I threw myself into craft projects, bought myself a scroll saw and learned to glue patterns to boards and follow tiny lines in circles, squares and angles. I crocheted hats to give to the homeless who dotted the streets around our house, or to donate to cancer centers or to friends of friends who fight this ugly disease. I crocheted dragons and dinosaurs and bears.  I painted by numbers and painted with diamonds and listened to audiobooks. And Netflix, don't forget Netflix. There's not a true crime documentary I haven't seen. Husband has cancer. Easy peasy compared to serial killers or Amish murderers.

I started writing about this awful, beautiful journey, and got stuck, so I switched to second person because I need distance.

It's sitting under a sledgehammer waiting to see where it falls. Will it fall on your pinky finger, a little blip on a CT scan, no cause for concern? Or will it fall on your foot, a new tumor? Or will it fall on your head, a terminal prognosis? You're so fogged in you don't know what the biggest relief will be, the hammer not falling at all, or falling and crushing your skull.

It's thinking about getting a new tattoo and the artist says he's scheduling 5 months out. Yeah, that's not gonna work, you think. You don't know where you'll be in 5 months.

It's waking up one morning realizing you need to look for the DNR order, because the time might be coming where it's important to have handy. It's not finding it, so you type up the form, making note to have your husband and his doctor sign it, because you need to have a copy with you at all times. It's not the way you wanted to start your day. 

It's wondering if your last anniversary will be your last anniversary, if last Thanksgiving will be your last Thanksgiving, if you should make a fuss about Christmas this year because it might be the last Christmas you have together. It's thinking about things you never thought you'd have to think about.

It's watching the world go by as you sit, afraid to move forward, afraid to sit still, afraid. It's knowing that in five years, your life will look completely different than it does now. Husband and father likely both gone, victims of a disease you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. It's wondering how you'll function, how you'll breathe, how you'll exist in a world without them. 

It's trying to remember who you are, who you were before, when you depended only on yourself because you were all you had. It's realizing that, like it or don't, you will, once again, be all you have. 






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