My friend and two-time breast cancer survivor Kim once warned me about how I would feel after finishing treatment. She said it would feel like there were tigers hiding in the trees along my path, waiting to pounce. I now understand what she was talking about.
I have fought and won a battle. I have slain the enemy with a mass of chemical weapons and now that the battle is over, I lay down my weapons and walk home. Now what? Did I kill all my enemies? What if one shows up at my door? I left my weapons on the battlefield; what will I defend myself with? If my enemy shows up now, I will surely be defeated…
Today I realized that it takes a great deal of courage (for me) to think positively. It is easy to fear and despair. It is easy to plan your last words and imagine your funeral. Because it is safe. If it never happens, great. If it does happen, at least I’ll be prepared.
But to dream; to hope; to plan for a bright future: That is scary. Because nothing can tear your heart to pieces like a dream ripped from your hands.
So I have two choices:
A. I can be optimistic and plan my future the way I hope it will turn out, and take the chance that my dreams will in fact be ripped from my hands someday.
B. I can be paralyzed with fear and toss my dreams on the floor. Expect the worst. Plan my funeral and write letters of final goodbye’s. Live life from day to day, but don’t expect too much out of it.
Okay, option B seems pretty pathetic.
So here I am, placing my heart on the altar of hope. And if my dreams are taken away, at least I can say that I fought for them.
I imagine myself in five years. I am 37 years old. I go to the oncologist for my yearly follow-up, and he says, “Your last PET scan looks great. Congratulations.” It is a warm spring day with a light wind twirling the blossoms from the trees. I drive to the elementary and pick up my boys from school, now ages 10, 8, and 6. We stop and get ice-cream before going to the park, where I chase them around without getting tired. When we get home, there is a letter waiting for me from a literary agent, saying that my second book has been picked up by a major publisher. Keith comes home and we all go out to eat to celebrate. After dinner, I go running – non-stop – for 45 minutes, not because I feel I have to run from something, but because I love to run.
And here’s the one that takes the most courage:
It is my 80th birthday. I sit on a soft chair in a large family room filled with my children, daughters-in-law, grandchildren, and husband. My hair is short and white, and my face is wrinkled like a raisin. The purple veins in my hands show through my thin, spotted skin, and I look down at them, reflecting back on the day when those veins were used as a porthole for poison. A poison that I am grateful for, because it saved my life. Because it brought me to this day, to this room, filled with all the people I love. As my beautiful granddaughter presents a slideshow of pictures from my life (which, of course, comes from a beam of light pointed at the wall from her iphone), I look heavenward and thank God for sparing me, for allowing me to stay here to be a mother, a wife, and a grandmother. And most of all, for letting me experience sorrow, so that I can greater feel joy.
