Sunday, April 24, 2016

First post of 2016?

The thing is, I go to school.  Also I was sick in early January, and then I couldn't walk for January and most of February and then I was writing papers and doing School Things, and then I got my job back (yay! I like my job!) and then Brad had surgery because Cancer and suddenly here it is April.  Hi April. 

So, 2016 so far hasn't been that great.  It's been the opposite of great.  It's been one thing after another and even though I was down to seeing the psychologist every two weeks and sometimes thinking "Wait, why am I here? I feel fine.", I am back to seeing her every week and the hour flies right by and I go home and lie in bed shaking.  And then get up and do some dishes or write a paper or study for an exam or fold laundry and go back to whimpering.  I've spent a lot of this year feeling like somebody smacked me across the side of a head with a two by four.  And just as that feeling fades - wham!

Which all sounds worse than it is, actually.  I'm still getting mostly A's.  I'm mostly sleeping.  I have friends at school, in spite of the rather noticeable age gap.  (I may have accidentally let my hair go grey again, what with the stunned bat approach and the time with the flying by, but they don't seem to care.) There are currently very few dishes in my sink.  I have an exam tomorrow that I feel good about and I got a much better mark on Friday's exam than I thought I would.

But there's the cancer thing.  The cancerous bit they snipped off Brad a few weeks ago, and then the phone call from the oncologist in which he basically said that if Brad sprouts anything else in the next year, there's no point doing anything about it. There's this huge blank where the Future used to be.

Except - the non-blank future?  That's based on the lie that we can see what's coming around the corner, or that there are no corners, that time is linear, and we can squint into the future and brace ourselves for what's coming. 

Here's what I know.  I know that Brad is still here.  I know that in the middle of the night tonight, I will roll over and bump into his warm, breathing body, and even if my stomach twists in fear for what I can't see, I will be able to lean over and breathe him in one more time.   We went for a really long drive today, hours and hours and hours in the mountains, holding hands for most of it, like we were 18 again, and couldn't stop touching each other, and talked and talked and talked about what the worst case scenario might look like, and how we'd navigate that, and diminished the fear by looking it full in the face.

This is how love works.  One of us is going to go first, and it's going to hurt so hard, but my goodness, we have been blessed.  We are blessed.  Cancer doesn't get to change that.


Anonymous said...

Nope... It doesn't get to change that ..... Bonnie

Hilda Plett said...

Sue, I have no words. My heart goes out to you.
My mom was 52 when my dad died. I'm older than that now.
I watched my dad die. I felt my heart was being ripped out of my body and thrown back in because it was still beating. I couldn't believe I was still breathing.
That was my dad. Not the one with whom I had become one.
I can't imagine for a second what you are going through. But I watch you through your writings and my heart aches for you.
God's grace is sufficient for us. God's grace is sufficient for you and for Brad. I love you both.
Turns out I did have a few words.

Third Culture Kid (because TCK does not stand for tick) and Lyme Mom said...

What a range of emotions you took me through just in these few words. The bat, the fear, the blessings. The gut ache and the hope. Praying that you get to breathe Brad in for many more years. Luv Rhonda.

Melora Sturkenboom said...

I love your expression..."Cancer doesn't get to change that." I don't know you and Brad but I feel how much you love each other. In Richard Gere's movie Shall We Dance, there is a description of marriage being important because we have this incredible opportunity to be a witness to the other person's life. I think that this means we won't necessarily chronicle every detail of the minutiae of life but that the richness of it is written on our hearts. You may be the one who tells the stories as a witness of Brad's life. Like this cool story you told us now. Very poignant. I'm saying a prayer for you both. Melora Sturkenboom

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