Two Years

Two years ago this afternoon I woke up in an outpatient surgical procedure room after a routine colonoscopy. Water, some snacks, a little crackle of adrenaline, maybe, now that I look back, sort of sticking around. Definitely a sense of concern about where the person who dropped me off was (Nolan, our former nanny) and when she would return. Within minutes, the doctor couldn't stand the waiting and barged into the room to tell me, more than a little wild-eyed, "You have cancer." Hysteria -but slow, heavy and medicinally encumbered - ensued. My husband was called; my mom. My dad. Our best friends, who immediately asked about the children. I was bundled into a car (Nolan's?) and taken to the hospital for a ct scan - late in the afternoon, and bless the staff for keeping the lights on for me.

And thus began my journey into a complicated and fucked up medical reality of metastatic colon cancer, a reality that, as I learned that afternoon while googling the info near my front door, offered a 6% chance of five year survival. But what, really, has it meant? The beginning of my end? The end, perhaps, of my beginning? I had no idea then; I honestly still have no idea now. 

Today is ending better than that awful day two years ago began; it's winding down nicely with some of the people who have been in the trenches with us, whether they expected to be or not, and with the giggles (thank God for giggles!) of our children and their friend. Two years ago, my oldest was slipping through first grade; my youngest hadn't even started elementary school. The melange of love and affection and attention and hope - oh, hope! - that would come to encircle and guide us had not even known that it was needed. It was waiting, of course, all along. It was waiting underneath the wings of angels, soft and unseen, barely breathing, and I'm here to tell you that the same collection of lovers and doers and prayers and wishers are waiting there for you all too, should you need it.

Because here...here's the thing. None of us know the future at all. None of us know what is coming, or how it works, or what it means, or who will help us. None of us know whether today is the beginning of a true new beginning or a sweet last slide into the brilliant and amazing beyond. How can we? 

Bless the thousands dead in Kathmandu. Pray for those who live and breathe among us. Embrace and find a beautiful place. None of us are sages.