Aspiring to thankfulness

"Somehow, in the process of trying to deny that things are always changing, we lose our sense of the sacredness of life. We tend to forget that we are part of the natural scheme of things." – Pema Chodron

Hundreds of messages from people who support and love me

Breast cancer is a nasty slap in the face during the holiday season. It's a far-colder-then-comfortable nip in the air. Dark blights on otherwise lovely cornucopias of abundance. A stark reminder of loss when seemingly everyone around us is celebrating what they have.

And, yet... I'm forcing myself to orient on the positive here, rather than dwell on negatives. It's not necessarily a Pollyanna-ish approach that I'm going for, though. Rather, I'm reminded that everything is impermanent. Healthy body, happy minds, complete families, bountiful bank balances, copious creature comforts - they are not ours to keep. They were never ours to begin with. Our time here, with or without everything our hearts' desire, is limited. And so, even when something for which we hope is missing, there is much to celebrate.

The week after my first chemotherapy has been a mixed bag. The fatigue and nausea were crushing at points; other days I bounded around with steroid-induced energy. Having my parents here with Sean and me was such a gift. It's funny how even hearing my Dad's voice booming through our house (when I was trying to rest) could coax a sleepy smile. And, when I vomited and Mom rubbed my back, I felt true comfort. We went for walks, when the temps were brisk and snow swirled. We grilled, laughed, prayed, told stories, shed tears, and tried to make this incredibly abnormal experience feel as normal as possible.

Out for a walk on day 2 post-chemo

Sean - the epitome of a doting spouse - has given his all to caring for me. And, he's a champion for my needs, for OUR needs. You know, a year ago we struggled to make a tough decision about changing our life so drastically it required a cross-country move. We argued, we debated, we lamented... leave DC and all our friends and familiar haunts or pass up an opportunity to live the way we vacationed (with ready access to the great outdoors). We leapt, and it's been the right choice for our marriage and mental health. It's also been lonely, isolating, scary. We live far from many old friends and from our families, but we're becoming part of new communities. Everything is more complex than it appears in carefully curated social media postings, but we've put down roots on Upper Hoffman Lake. We are together for the long, arduous haul.

Cancer throws new color on every action and decision. The quality of care here has been a beautiful sunrise painted on the mountains, the distance from family a dark cloudy sky. Nausea from the chemo treatment blackens my fragile insides, but the plethora of fresh produce brightens my skin and wipes away the stench of death from within. The cycles of cancer care - countless appointments, four rounds of this first chemo over eight weeks, 12 weekly rounds of the next cocktail combo - feel monotone and flat. The vibrancy of real, human interactions infuse a rainbow of hope and love on colorless palettes.

So, I'm thankful. The parade of cards and gifts boosts my weary spirit. Tiny texts - "you okay?" - are pulse checks from loved ones. My Lizzie kitty's sentinel-like attention to my every move warms my chilled hands and heart. A picture of my nephews reminds me that, even though we slightly delayed our Thanksgiving travel to accommodate my illness, I have little faces to kiss and hugs to dole out tomorrow.

My thankfulness extends to all of you, too. Say a few words around the table this week - thanking God, family, friends, our imperfect country, our earth, or what most strikes you - but do acknowledge and say it out loud. What you and I have today is not ours, so treasure all the moments and wonders in your world. Thank you for being wonderful sources of support in mine!