I always thought that if you loved someone enough, you would be able to save them. That the love a daughter has for her mother, a husband has for his wife, a friend has for another friend, could somehow overcome the science of it all. I had hope that that kind of love could shrink tumors and restore strength and take away pain for the people we love the most. It's all about staying positive, right? So if you think the right things and say the happy things and hope with every ounce of your soul that that person will get better, that it will happen somehow. If you love someone big enough, long enough, hard enough, then maybe that's enough to get to keep them.
But it's not. Monday morning, when I asked Emma how her weekend at home was, she told me it wasn't very great. I knew she was going to be spending the weekend with Elaine, and that they had some health issues to talk about, but I didn't know what. That's when she told me...
"She has six months barring any unforeseen complications."
I honestly thought it would hit me harder than it did. At least at first. I just took a deep breath and asked her a few questions, all the while my mind was reeling and trying to figure out how I was supposed to feel about those eight words. It's something we kind of expected was coming. In spite of all of our positivity and forward thinking and prayers and smiles, I think that deep down, we expected this. The same way you expect to be scared in a haunted house but have no idea when the monster is going to grab your leg.
At first I was nothing. Which was so disorienting, because I thought it would hit me immediately. And then, I was angry. Angry at God. Angry at modern medicine. Angry about the fact that my friend had to try to sit through a Monday and pretend like her mom wasn't dying. My anger came on slowly and faded quickly. And then I was sad. I mean, hits-you-like-a-sucker-punch-to-the-gut sad. My heart literally felt like it was shattering into a million pieces. And finally, I cried.
I cried for Elaine. I cried for Emma, who is like another sister to me, and for their whole family. I cried for my mom and all of their friends. And I cried for me. I cried because I am not strong enough in my faith to find comfort in God's plan. I cried because my friend is going to lose her mom. My mom is going to lose her friend. I cried because I had no idea what else to do. Because I don't know how to lose people. I don't know how to be there for the people I love right now. What to say or do.
I went home on Monday night and curled up with my dog and just stared at the wall. I thought about everything you could pack into 6 months' time. And I thought about everything you couldn't. And at some point, I drifted off to sleep and did not dream.
I have said before that it is a wonder to me how the world continues to turn. How tragedy can knock one person off their feet and a neighbor down the block is just brushing his teeth before work. It's actually kind of funny if you think about it, because as humans, we're connected in so many ways. You'd think that we'd be able to feel the heartache of others somehow, ya know? At least a little bit.
But the world is still spinning The sun came up on Tuesday and it went down again Tuesday night. Work didn't slow down. People went about their days, probably worrying about the laundry they left in the washer or picking up dinner after soccer practice. And all along it felt like I was staying still while everything else buzzed around me in one big blur. Because I knew, that somewhere on the other side of town, one of the most amazing people I know is running out of time.
It's damn near impossible to make the best out of a situation like this. But you have to do what you can if you don't want the sadness to consume you. So I started thinking about time and I sat down to write. What are the things I would cherish the most if I had 259,200 minutes? Where would I go? Who would I talk to and see? What would I listen to? Would I take a walk every day? Would I eat as much junk food as possible? Would I try to take in as much ordinary as I possibly could before my head hit the pillow each night?
I don't know. But it sure puts things into perspective, don't you think?
But it's not. Monday morning, when I asked Emma how her weekend at home was, she told me it wasn't very great. I knew she was going to be spending the weekend with Elaine, and that they had some health issues to talk about, but I didn't know what. That's when she told me...
"She has six months barring any unforeseen complications."
I honestly thought it would hit me harder than it did. At least at first. I just took a deep breath and asked her a few questions, all the while my mind was reeling and trying to figure out how I was supposed to feel about those eight words. It's something we kind of expected was coming. In spite of all of our positivity and forward thinking and prayers and smiles, I think that deep down, we expected this. The same way you expect to be scared in a haunted house but have no idea when the monster is going to grab your leg.
At first I was nothing. Which was so disorienting, because I thought it would hit me immediately. And then, I was angry. Angry at God. Angry at modern medicine. Angry about the fact that my friend had to try to sit through a Monday and pretend like her mom wasn't dying. My anger came on slowly and faded quickly. And then I was sad. I mean, hits-you-like-a-sucker-punch-to-the-gut sad. My heart literally felt like it was shattering into a million pieces. And finally, I cried.
I cried for Elaine. I cried for Emma, who is like another sister to me, and for their whole family. I cried for my mom and all of their friends. And I cried for me. I cried because I am not strong enough in my faith to find comfort in God's plan. I cried because my friend is going to lose her mom. My mom is going to lose her friend. I cried because I had no idea what else to do. Because I don't know how to lose people. I don't know how to be there for the people I love right now. What to say or do.
I went home on Monday night and curled up with my dog and just stared at the wall. I thought about everything you could pack into 6 months' time. And I thought about everything you couldn't. And at some point, I drifted off to sleep and did not dream.
I have said before that it is a wonder to me how the world continues to turn. How tragedy can knock one person off their feet and a neighbor down the block is just brushing his teeth before work. It's actually kind of funny if you think about it, because as humans, we're connected in so many ways. You'd think that we'd be able to feel the heartache of others somehow, ya know? At least a little bit.
But the world is still spinning The sun came up on Tuesday and it went down again Tuesday night. Work didn't slow down. People went about their days, probably worrying about the laundry they left in the washer or picking up dinner after soccer practice. And all along it felt like I was staying still while everything else buzzed around me in one big blur. Because I knew, that somewhere on the other side of town, one of the most amazing people I know is running out of time.
It's damn near impossible to make the best out of a situation like this. But you have to do what you can if you don't want the sadness to consume you. So I started thinking about time and I sat down to write. What are the things I would cherish the most if I had 259,200 minutes? Where would I go? Who would I talk to and see? What would I listen to? Would I take a walk every day? Would I eat as much junk food as possible? Would I try to take in as much ordinary as I possibly could before my head hit the pillow each night?
I don't know. But it sure puts things into perspective, don't you think?
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