Nice day for a white wedding

"Sometimes our light goes out, but is blown again into instant flame by an encounter with another human being.” – Albert Schweitzer

At my most recent chemo - the last A+C treatment

It was a whim. You can ask Sean - I truly despise watching episodes on television that I've already seen, so TLC shouldn't have been on. But, the days after a chemo treatment feel interminably long, television gets boring, and I simply didn't have the energy for anything else.

And, that's how I wound up crying on the couch to an old clip from Say Yes to the Dress.

My eyes were particularly leaky this past week, it's true. My hormones are all jacked up from the cancer treatments, meds, and my normal monthly cycle. But, what really happened was I got a dose of reality [television] to burst my bubble of emotional denial. I watched an optimistic woman and her family pick her dream wedding dress, and while they were flooded with excitement, relief, anticipation, and hope... I was crushed. Six years ago, I picked out my wedding dress. Surrounded by my mom, sisters, and closest friends, I had that occasion of joy. Of unprecedented possibility. Engaged to the man of my dreams (which Sean still is!), dressed in airy white, and being showered with compliments, I had no notion of what lay ahead. In that moment, all I had was that moment.

And, now I have cancer.

October 15, 2011 - The perfect wedding day

Perhaps it's a leap. But what that wedding dress moment (and all the shows depicting it) represents is the glamorous surreality of life. The highest of highs. We place many of our hopes for the future into a meaningful ceremony, fabulous party, series of lovely photos, and feeling of immeasurable love. It's not fake or pretend. And, yet, it is only a snapshot of our experiences, ideally one of those "best moments" in life.

Still, the other moments happen. The moments where partners argue. Where separation and divorce are necessary steps of dissolution. The moments we less frequently showcase on social media where others might judge or pity us - the job losses, tight budgets, emergency room visits, pet deaths, child illnesses, car accidents. And, for me, cancer.

Cancer couldn't look less like my wedding dress day. I'm bloated from the steroids and liquids, my head is hazy and forgetful, my hair is all but nonexistent, my eyes are dull, my skin is dry. I feel very alone much of the time, rather than surrounded by love and encouragement. I was a princess on an October Saturday in 2011. Now, I'm a zombie more days than not.

Those of you who follow me on Instagram may have noticed that since the beginning of November I've been fairly diligent about posting a #gratitude picture every day. I've found it's helpful for me to find something - just one little thing - to appreciate and celebrate daily. But, man, have I been forcing it lately, enviously consuming your happy posts and wishing I could share them. This road's been tough in recent weeks. The snow has piled high outside the front door, my energy levels are tanking, and I'm feeling isolated by cancer. I can't easily be the vibrant and productive executive director I want to be, because I'm weighed down by brain-addling drugs, exhaustion, and a crushing guilt. I'm a shell of a friend or mentor, as I'm often stuck in a place of personal hopelessness which impedes my ability to support and uplift others. The emptiness of January's weeks after the holidays stretch out ahead, and I can't stop thinking that I have at least four more months of crap to do to eliminate the cancer from my body. Ugh..., there are 12 more chemo treatments (although, I'm holding out hope that the Taxol is not as tough as the first two drugs). Every. Single. Week. Through early April, I'll be sitting in that infusion room on Fridays, waiting for the drip-drip-drip of poison to enter my system.

As the tears flowed freely in my post-Say Yes to the Dress meltdown, my thoughts were heavy and full of despair. I looked to Sean with watery eyes. I hurt physically and emotionally, self-loathing rising in my throat. "How can you still love this?" I point to my puffy face. "I'm so sorry you have to endure this, too," I wail to him. I cannot imagine seeing one's partner go from bold, beaming blonde bride to this weakened monster into which I've morphed. I tell him that I now look like Darth Vader when unmasked by son Luke in Return of the Jedi. Sean doesn't laugh. He shakes his head. Only he sees me this way, at my very worst - a make-up-free mess, with pokey little hairs sparsely standing up on my head, eyes swollen from alternately sleeping too much and crying too often. All femininity appears to have seeped from me, and the person in the huge gaudy mirror (left by the previous homeowners) on the dining room wall is unrecognizable. "I look like a chubby little boy."

Sean moved toward me, not shying away from my pain or tears. "I see beauty," he said, cupping his hands around my face. "I see my beautiful baby."

I love him, and I have to hear and believe his words. He's the true mirror, reflecting light back at me when I cannot create my own or unravel the distorted thoughts. In the moments like this, where I struggle to see past the tyranny of the immediate, Sean knows and reminds me that we have a lifetime to look forward to once this passes.

This is real life, people. I feel so fortunate to be part of more than a wedding-industrial-complex-produced special day. Today, I'm not in a white wedding dress, but I am in a real marriage. That means seeing the underlying beauty in each other, sharing the burden of cancer, and holding one another through the storms. Our commitment to each other includes aches and fears and hope. It's embodied in moments like this one - providing and receiving loving support even when it feels undeserved.

Sean and I talk things out for a bit, cracking open the isolation booth in which I've sequestered myself. I get a glimmer of okay-ness, perspective through processing the pain I'm feeling. Then I put on some mascara and get dressed. We go for a walk around Home Depot, because a change of scenery and some movement will help my mood. And, because we need a plant stand.