Saturday, July 5, 2008
These lazy days between chemo treatments lull me into almost forgetting I have serious, stage four cancer. Sure, there are the obvious reminders, like my cane, like the Hickman catheter that I have to flush and clean every two days, but that's 15 minutes, and then I'm not thinking about it anymore. The summer days drift by, and I'm busy enjoying my boys or sitting on the patio or reading a fascinating book and thinking about how much there is to learn and see in this world, this life. But then it hits me hard, like when Daniel and I are napping on the bed together and he hears a noise and stirs and reaches out and touches my arm and then goes back to sleep, and I see how much my presence comforts him, and I start crying. Or I'm lying in bed with Steve and suddenly the reality of my situation hits me so hard that I start sobbing on his shoulder and punching my fist against his back, almost like I'm having a tantrum, saying, "I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to go." There's nothing to do but cry, and pray, and then I usually get back to the business of living for each day. But those times haunt me. They haunt me today.