Gratitude and Grief

It's the holly-dazed season once again, and as usual, it really snuck up on me. I feel like I am still considering what I should carve on my Halloween pumpkin...but bam! There are only two more weekends before Christmas! How can this be?

The holidays are always a hectic time of year for me (join the club, right?) - although usually it's because I'm working and there are finals to prep and grade and next semester's courses waiting for finishing touches. But here I am, on medical leave, and this year is just as crazy as the last. Thanksgiving, in fact, was even a bit nuttier than usual, because we had most of my husband's family here for the holiday! It was a full, full house - 12 people sleeping here in our 3 bedroom townhouse - but we threw the kids into the basement rec room and the rest of it worked out well (with special thanks to our neighbors, who were away and lent us their guest room). With such a big guest list, I had lots of great plans for decorating, and ideas for kids' activities, and a fantastic menu planned. And then cancer came along. See, I did all of my planning while I was on an off week of my chemo cycle, so I felt great...and then my bloodwork came back the week before the holiday with the news that my platelets were high enough to restart my oral chemo regimen. This is obviously a blessing, because of course without my meds, my somewhat stable health status will quickly erode, but it was a bane, too, because taking my oral chemo pills (Xeloda, for any of you familiar with that lovely drug) makes me feel pretty crappy. I have no appetite; my nose goes into overtime and becomes acutely sensitive to a whole host of smells, which makes me nauseous; my stomach is upset at almost all waking hours; and I have about 30% of my usual energy. All in all, it makes getting ready for the holiday really daunting. 

When I share this with people, they tell me to relax, let others carry the load, enjoy my time with my family...and I try to do that. I really do. I am so grateful that both of Nick's brothers and their families, as well as his mom, all came here all the way from Iowa and Missouri to spend the holiday with us. My mom was here, too, and having her here is absolutely wonderful. There's nothing quite so fun as seeing cousins playing together and enjoying each other - like siblings but with far fewer squabbles! - and having a few cocktails, playing cards, watching the dog show...just catching up. Sitting around the table on Thanksgiving, as we all shared the things for which we were thankful, I have so many things to be grateful for, from my amazing medical team and our new house to the kids' happiness at their new school and an endless supply of books and yarn (so that I can indulge in my two favorite hobbies - reading and knitting), and so very many people for whom I have deep gratitude and love: my husband, my children, our extended families, my former students, my many beautiful friends...and most of all, I was full of happiness to be here sharing another Thanksgiving, at our brand new dining table, surrounded by people we love. I could barely share my thoughts without tears.

And yet. Amidst the gratefulness and the love, slipping around in the background of our celebration like a dank and hungry shadow, there was grief. Grief that I hadn't been able to make all of the items on my Thanksgiving menu, that I had to take a nap in order to make it through the day, that I wasn't dressed in a holiday-themed apron and whipping up waffles for breakfast during the Thanksgiving Day parade. And if gratitude has, as its infinite partner, love - grief has its impervious sidekick: fear. Fear that this Thanksgiving will be my last. Fear that the kids will only remember that I was sleepy and feeling sick during the week long holiday; that they'll resent that I sent them to two days of camp before the family arrived so that I - let's be honest - could sleep. I've always, always been a perfectionist, and cancer makes achieving the perfect gathering, the perfect moment, the quiet and expansive quality time with my favorite people...oh, it makes it so much harder. There's not enough Xanax in the world to fix the brokenness that cancer brings. I'm sorry to say it, but it's true.

So as the holiday season advances, should you see me rushing around looking wild-eyed, crazy-haired, vacant-stared, and overburdened, would you do me a favor and ask me what, at that moment, I'm grateful for? Undoubtedly, I'll be grateful to you for asking me that question, and pulling me back to the brilliant, celebratory side of the season, instead of the one that haunts me in my hardest, wide-awake-at-3am moments. And maybe remind me that the road ahead may be rocky, but that we'll get through it together: you, me, gratitude...and maybe a little grief.