Dec 30, 2019

The surgeon I was seeing last year scoffed reading the biopsy report for my second diagnosis, “There’s something very wrong with your breasts! Surgery, Jan 2nd.” Wait, what about the full report? Genetic testing? Shouldn’t we have more information? I had many questions. Everything happened fast, and offices were closed for the holiday. I was supposed to have a HNY, and then party on into double mastectomy... nah.

I slept last NYE, fighting for life yet longing for death- or at least a life not my own. There was much ahead. First up, finding a new surgeon. I’ve shared much, and a fraction, this year- unpacking a lifetime of pain. It’s been the worst and yet Gordon and I have managed to joke, “Maybe this is the best year yet?” It’s been a year of great lessons, a year of great loss, but it’s also been a year blessed- and I say that in fury. Life had nearly slipped my grasp, and I say this in seriousness, generosity of spirit held me on.

I wear the coziest socks, gifts from strangers I do not even recall, brainwashed chemo. I remember generosity each step. Gifts from across the globe, meals, errands, prayers, grief shared, space held. Gifts. Rent in the city and many medical bills paid. We had little room to worry about a need, other than our need for life and less suffering.

Going forward, I’ve wondered how to be, how to honor the privilege and loss. Much has changed and the prospect of reoccurrence makes looking for the future seem somehow frivolous, or stupid, at times. We are not promised our days. But, that truth is true for me like it’s true for us all. And I’ve fought for this life.

I’ve been wondering if it’s not our dreams that make us who we are, for it’s my dreams that seem unchanged, unrelenting. I dream in disbelief for a season, then pride. How dare I long for such beauty, after being a friend to much pain? Even when surrendered to sorrow, eventually I’m lured by the light, the flowers, the scent of honey, the echo of laughter, the desire to give, the aroma of the garden, the smoke from fire and all that’s been burned. Dreams.

We must let go, but let’s not forget any gold- lessons still smoldering, refined by heat, treasures in ash.