I Am Do you remember the sound of my mothers voice? Deep and rolling, like waves traveling toward the shore of Galilee, where the silver sparkles wait with gladness to bathe in her love. There are moments when I miss my mothers easy laughter so badly that I wince. Almost every night we sit at her table in my dining room and I realize that she is actually here. Her sultry sound is in my heart. It was a whole year ago that I wrote about my terminal diagnosis. I have learned so much while looking for meaning. The coincidences and metaphors made for great lullabys. My dad has jumped every hurdle with us. My friends have morphed into family members. We escorted my grandmother to her Lord, my son understands the power of love, my daughters independence startles the whole house, and my husband even shaved. It has been grand. All the while, I am dying. We are purging the house getting ready for a move. With breaks for chemo and sunshine, we use old newspaper and liquor store boxes and we remember. I have found pictures, Aunt Floris china, unused school supplies, sympathy cards, and more kitchen gadgets than any four families need. I discovered an up-right piano in my barn. Does anyone out there need rocking chairs? We will never be done, I am certain. But Claire said that my aura shows life. Yoga breathes energy into my body. My eyebrows and lashes contradict my baldness. We have cooked apples and canned peaches. I have lost weight, but gained shape. I was sunburned on the ferry to Block Island, and basked in the smell of wild grapes when Jake took me on a motorcycle ride. Three countries paid visit, holiday meals were duplicated, selfies were posted. The peepers outside the barn remind me that the rest is just noise... I am alive. It is what it is. And it is so hard to let it be that. I went to a healing service, Joel Osteens mother taught me which bible passages prove miraculous restoration, I felt my tumor turn into a campfire during a Reike session, we are going to the September Gong bath. Tina reminds me that the end result will happen anyway, so she chooses to just “believe”. I am trying that on this month. I dont have cancer, I have chemo. I dont have a tumor anymore, I have doctors appointments. I dont have an expiration date, I have a new bucket list of things to accomplish, and waaaayyy too many things on it to leave soon. I begin every morning in sadness. I grieve the fact that I lost so much; my family members, my occupation, my insurance, my savings, my stamina. I feel sorry for my kids who continue to carry this burden. I worry for my husband who must juggle hope, and statistics, and bleaching the bathroom. The alarm sounds and all of these realities must process out of my heart – from anxiety to liberation. For my day is full. I cope. I contribute. I am. When Rikki turns out the bedroom light I am smiling. The beauty of this day was always worth the heartache. I realize that the cycle will start again tomorrow. And I will win again- tomorrow. Morning and night; sorrow and fulfillment; just like the waves at Galilee, which roll in one after the other, after the other. My mothers voice will speak softly, raspy-like, reminding me of the warmth inside my bubble. I envision the safe, soft places she taught me to see with guided imagery. I mimic her glorious smile to obscure my uncertainty. I cleave to her promise that she waits for me in some place I cant even imagine. And I am rewarded wondrously for it- by kindness, by life, by service, and by happy memories. By Rikki, and Jake, and Libby. And I doze off to dream...
Posted on: Wed, 17 Sep 2014 11:23:11 +0000
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