Wedding planning is fully underway, and I can say that unlike earlier situations… I am having a blast. I don’t think it’s the planning as much as being absolutely proud, and elated of what is going on. It’s a feeling of excitement I haven’t experienced before.
I have a bit of a hurdle ahead of me. After getting the test results back from my doctor, my body is filling with atypical cells once again, and I’ll have a few surgeries ahead of me this year. (And hopefully my doctor will have the backbone and wherewithall to realize that it’s a good thing to take everything out- and that I need this yearly guessing process to end.)
You know you love someone- truly love them, when you look in their eyes and realize you want a piece of them in your arms. I’m so sorry that can’t happen anymore- and as much support as my hubby-to-be gives me, I’m plagued with uncertainty if I’m really alright with everything.
I’m scared- I think saying it out loud is a compelling thing for my body to understand. The fear of always wondering if cancer is going to open it’s mouth and devour me is substancial. Sometimes, when I ride the bus to work in the mornings- I tell myself, and daydream about how I’d have my funeral played out- it makes me ready for any news, and I wonder- if I’m so prepared to die, am I prepared to fight if it comes to that?
I’m a 0 – to – 90′er. Some people take bits of information at a time, rinse and repeat. I take bits of information and paper mache them to my, ‘what if!’ wall. (Which is equally unhealthy and intelligent.) I find the worst possible scenerio- I think it out over and over in my head, I determine my ultimate goals and outcomes, develop a plan- then attack on accepting whatever happens. I fear for the worst. I worry this is doing my body harm.
When I went in last year- I had a will drawn up. In a sad way- I was ready if that was the case. I knew my daughter- (the pure perfection that she is,) would have incredible accommodations, and that people would always be there to love and care for her. I prepared so well, that out of surprise of everything happening, I really forgot about it all. I had other things to think about- the new job, the failed relationships- ideas and wants- and dreams. I forgot what the fear of death could do to someone. Instead I focused more on other fears, and soon, I had nagging feelings.
I suppose it started with the pain- tiny pinpricks in my body. Unrecognizable at first, almost like my brain was in a deep slumber. Then bleeding- for weeks, then the feeling of being absolutely exausted- and finally I decided to go in. My doctor told me I had nothing to fear- that my proactive approach was one that would save me- but internally? I imagined my death over, and over- almost obsessively- like if I imagined it, perhaps my body would recognize how I had accepted it- and I’d cheat it- it would slay someone else. Maybe it was the way the nurse told me to, ‘call her if I needed anything,’ because they know me at this point, and I have come to love the comfort of their voices. If the day comes when the news is dire- they’ll no longer be my support system- and I’ll probably long for the casual chit-chat of hellos on the phone.
I always imagined the worst- daydream after daydream- literally lying on my bed with Ava at my side- thinking up everything I needed to tell her. I always promised myself I would find the perfect words, that I would express every day to myself- how I could handle everything with grace- and I focused so much on the negative- and planning.
I’ve taken my daughter out more- we spent this summer at the park, and she’s learning with her tiny arms and legs, how to maneuver such feats with ease. This was the summer she turned into a little girl. I’ll never forget seeing her climb up the bars for the first time and hearing her say with determination, “I DO IT! YOU NO HELP ME!” I remember the tears that welled up when she put her knees perfectly on the landing space above- farther than my arms could reach- she had done it. I dont think for one moment that little girl sat in between the bars and daydreamed about not doing something, so that when her failure came, she was able to deal with it with ‘ease’ and ‘perfectly.’
So I’m going to say this to myself, and for everyone to see- because I’m tired of preparing, and thinking and overthinking and analyzing and having tears at 12:30 at night- alone… I’m not doing this anymore. I have such things ahead of me- and there is no WAY I’ll go the route of dying in bed of something that took me before my hair even turned gray. It’s absolutely not ME. No more thoughts about funerals, or being scared- because I’m done trying to be perfection on the way to the grave. I’m done worrying about if this will be my last season because it might come back, or if the test results are poor- how to tell my boss. I’m done worrying about the baby I will probably never have, as much as I so want to hold him in my arms.
It’s ironic, you know? I was given a few chances in life to have children- and I had my baby- during a period of frustration and fear. And now? That my heart met someone else- someone with the same vision… I’ll have no capacity to carry anything anymore. And I wonder- the luck and the decisions I made- if they weighed on this outcome- 0r if it’s just simply life’s greatest lesson. When we are ready- the learning period is over- at least for me.
There’s a little hope, not that I base my life on whether or not we can have a child, but it almost seems that the moment something is taken away- like toddlerdom, we only want it more. And I overthink… instead of those nights up sewing- and the days holed up- why didnt I hold that child every moment? Why didn’t I touch her face and tiny curls and cherish everything- because it might have been my last? The smells of formula, and freshly bathed tiny humans- do something to me. The one thing I’ve always wanted- was a chance to redeem; the ultimate ‘re-do’ of an unplanned pregnancy. Marriage, then another baby, and people would acknowledge this life as one of society’s golden. Maybe I care too much- but I wanted the night in planning a child, and going through a pregnancy with someone at my side who wanted him as much as I did.
Would I ever imagine at 26, I’d be border-line begging my skeptical doctor to please remove my uterus? (You know- the one I thanked so many times for not producing off-spring of non-deserving mates?) I’d have had no clue.
I have resentment towards myself- and my body’s inability to correctly fight-off infection, (I’m a little bitter.) For any woman who’s ever found a lump, or had an abnormal pap- you know what I mean. I feel like my body helped produce the very thing that is harming me- and I’m incredibly angry, (which is all reality is NOT helpful,) incredibly, incredibly angry.
My doctor thinks it’s either a raging infection of secret sorts- or the start of last year’s saga, (new for 2009!) I don’t feel like this is my wake-up call, or that perhaps my reproductive organs are revolting- I feel like it’s telling me… It’s time to rip this the hell out. (Which is about the most comforting thing I can think of.) Because honestly… having stuff there that is already causing so much chaos is no longer a smart decision. I told this to my doctor last year- and he told me, “Wait! You’re so young- you’ll change your mind.” But after the last procedure, hopes of a normal pregnancy went out the window as well- so really… I lost on both counts.
I was silent much of the ride home tonight. Josh was holding my hand tightly, and we remarked on funny movie quotes. He knows what I’m thinking before I even state what’s wrong, and he assures me not to worry. I know his words hold promise- which is probably the only reason I function on any cylindars at all with the emotional capacity of a rock at this moment. Two months- he promises, (see? now it’s in writing!) that we’ll have our own life in a home we are trying to find.
My life is out there somewhere- I feel this. And in saying that- I realize, how silly that is. Maybe for right now- life is mom’s basement, and wishing for other things- and a little girl who is asleep in the next room. Maybe all the things I wanted so much when she was born needed more time to materialize because it meant more in the end. Lord knows I built my share of docks to only have them collapse from my own weight. All I can see when I look at him- is the smile that resides on his face and the laugh- with his head tilted back. I want that smile without teeth- I want his gray hair, and I want my child to see the love he has to offer. I didn’t have to build this deck alone- and I am carefully laying my pieces- always wondering what would happen if this news turned sour.
I wish doctors would realize that big girls still have dreams. That sacrificing one dream for another- is usually the best chance for survival- emotionally and spiritually. I hope he hears my words when I tell him- I no longer want the stress of wondering which test will show new cells- because it’s affecting all my thoughts. It’s almost like the weed in the back of my mind that is fueled by it all- it never droops- it’s growing to mammoth proportions, and the idea of losing what I now have is proving to be a much harder thing to not focus on.
My left hand gives me hope- in all areas. Suddenly falling asleep doesn’t seem so daunting, and the very things I used to pretent to despise and not want, are the things I cherish most. He believes in me- and I have to start doing that a little more too.
