Oct 22, 2019

Yesterday was infusion day. The day before I walked home in the rain and I marveled at its beauty with no umbrella in hand, drops of water pitter pattering at my cheeks. Honestly, quite a sensation if you don’t mind the wet.

I thought it rebellious to celebrate the bad weather, then I wondered if what I’m wondering about is really gratitude. Then I woke up with a cold, and I wondered if I’m a fool.

I’m made of grief and thanks. Each step with the slightest hint at the fact that I might fall to my knees in surrender. Each swing of my arms with longing to find the reach up to the skies in disbelief. An odd smile on my face as I’m mystified that I’m still in motion and able to delight in the wet that falls like a hug on my clothes. A hug that I need.

I’m not ashamed of my sadness like I was before. Even the weather has a grey day, and how to feel about it is up to us. Most of us wish for only sunshine without even the slightest consideration of what would happen if it never poured.

My physical therapist has asked that I spend 15 minutes a day massaging my scars. Try as I may, the task of sitting with myself there has been more than I can bare, especially in a home of lovely busy people who can make it hard to remember how to slow down and touch deep. I know I must.

The edges of me are on the move, and I press out to fill my need to know my boundaries. I look away for reprieve and what does it add.

Senses turning on and off, like drips down the IV to my heart, the space between each drop. It’s gratitude and remembering, forgetting and agony, and then it’s now.

No umbrella and I’m soaking wet.