Find Joy. Seek Truth. Be Kind.

Friday, June 28, 2013


It's been a weird unsettling day.

We rushed to the car to go home tonight from an interrupted outdoor performance of "Midsummer's Night's Dream" which, until that point, had been excellent.  It was interrupted by a sudden rain and thunderstorm.  As we drove home I felt like I was in a video game, literally dodging fallen trees, barely able to see through the windshield.  It somehow felt like a fitting end to the day.

I'm tired.  Bone tired.  This morning Bit Boy and Hot Dog  were joined by a neighboring teen and they all helped me clear a side yard that had been ignored for the last two years.  We got it nearly all done in just two hours, and it was good hard work. 

I needed it.  When I'm troubled I need to move, work hard, and wear my body out.  I've been struggling to keep my chemo brain functioning, on track.  It's so hard for me to manage things that were trivial before.  I make lists, tuck notes in places where I'm sure to find them, but still, I miss things.  It felt good to have something concrete to do, and to get done even a small bit of work that piled up during my lost year.

It was good to focus on something outside my head.

Yesterday a good friend let me know her nephew had died.   What words do you give to a family who have lost a young life too soon?

Today another friend posted about the death of a friend's 15 year old.  A parent shouldn't have to bury their child, yet I know of too many who have. 

What does it mean, that a child dies?
And the rest of the world goes on?  

When something awful happens, a life changing diagnosis,  the death of a loved one, time stops.  There is a bubble of unrealness that surrounds that moment and separates it from everything else.  It's disorienting to look around notice that other people aren't noticing how, now, in this moment, everything has changed.  My heart breaks for those in the silent bubble of that isolation of loss and shock.
Today I went on.   I don't always know why I go on, but I'm glad  I can. 

1 comment:

Paula said...

April, I know the bubble of isolation. While we have not been in each other's inner circles, I know what is is like to question each day, each month, each year. My breast cancer diagnosis at 45 made my next 10 years full of worry and wonder. My prognosis was: time will tell. I know my start point was not as advanced as yours. Still for every year after diagnosis, the risk was always 50/50 for me. Either I survived in the here and now, or not.
I always have you in my prayers.
You are wonderful.
I have always admired your spunk.