In hindsight, I think I may have been a little overexcited for the season's first snow. Sure, it's beautiful to see the outdoors blanketed white, but I certainly underestimated the accompanying cold. Furthermore, I've realized that under normal circumstances, snow is especially refreshing because it provides a wonderfully good reason to stay inside and sink into a sea of covers. I, on the other hand, need no such excuse, as such is my daily existence, so unless I become particularly motivated to go outside and roll around in it, the snow has brought me only marginal satisfaction.
Nevertheless, I refuse to lose appreciation for those few things in which I find beauty. Being isolated, or sheltered, from the outside world makes it easy to forget what's out there. I don't want to forget that good things do exist, and that I may still find them, though I'm so jaded and discouraged by life's injustice.
When I was little, my mom and I used to make up bedtime stories. We thought we were pretty good at it, too. We said that one day, we'd go into business together writing children's books. I would do most of the writing (my mom always thought I was so creative), and she would do the illustrations. My mom is a very talented artist.
The main character in our stories was a boy named Bean-in-the-Box. Naturally, he was about my age, though I can't remember his real name, and he loved boxes. Bean-in-the-Box absolutely adored boxes. Cardboard boxes, wooden boxes, you name it, he wanted them. And by accumulating as many boxes as he could, Bean-in-the-Box was able to construct an enormous fort, or maze, that took up most of his bedroom. It had different levels where he could climb, and nooks in which he could hide, and every night Bean's dad would bring home a brand new box to add to the collection. Sure, Bean had a bed where he slept, I don't think anyone really wants to sleep in a box, but Bean-in-the-Box had a refuge; a secret world to which he could escape and not be bothered by anything or anyone.
Ironically, Bean-in-the-Box had a younger sister the same age as mine, with the same name, though I'm not sure she was allowed access into Bean's box world. What gets me, though, is the foresight Bean-in-the-Box had to know that he would always benefit from having a means of getting away from everything. He knew about trying to escape well before he ever knew the things that I know now. But he wasn't afraid of being alone, I'll give him that, and I have a suspicion he didn't find it hard to express the way he felt.
The trouble I saw with Bean-in-the-Box was that he may have been too complacent with his boxes. Sure, he was just a boy, but he needed to get out and pursue more adventure if he were ever really going to become a popular children's book character.
I keep coming back to this idea of escape; I can't seem to get away from it. I want so badly to step outside again, to try to be happy on my own terms, but I'm afraid I won't be able. I feel stuck, trapped, in this mold, and the longer I stay in it the harder I fear it will be to break free. Especially now, knowing so well how easily things break and how quickly they can disappear.
I know I can't hide in boxes, and I know that faithless can turn to faithful in an instant. I've fallen into something I'll never fully escape, through no fault of my own, but there's no place for fear.
Today, I'm jaded. Maybe tomorrow I'll be surprised.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Friday, December 4, 2009
Hope and Uncertainty
Today, for the first time, I can count the number of remaining rounds on my one hand. It's still two and a half more months of chemo, then radiation and weeks of vaccines, but I'm still proud of having made it this far.
That said, I still can't help being scared sometimes. It's just the honest truth; sometimes, I'm really scared that chemo will stop working, or radiation or these vaccines that are supposed to keep the tumor from returning just won't work and it will come back stronger than ever. One thing I know is that when I finish all of this treatment, I never ever want to endure it again.
But that's the problem, isn't it? There's always uncertainty, no matter what the situation is. It seems that death might be the only real certainty in life.
It wasn't until I got sick that I really understood how one day is never guaranteed from the next. It's difficult to see each day as a blessing, especially when I feel there's so much on which I've been missing out. It's easy to forget that I am still living, I'm still feeling, and I know I'll never stop dreaming.
But death is an inevitable part of life, and unfortunately, it appears to be prevalent in this cancer world; a world I never asked to be a part of, or to be granted access, but it is a world of uncertainty in which I find myself at any rate.
For months, I tore apart my daily life searching for hope, but found nothing but the same familiar loneliness and those same unanswerable questions.
People find unpredictable ways of entering our worlds, and we can't just close ourselves off to them. At least, I can't. The sad part is that we never know how people will leave our worlds, either, though we can anticipate the impact they will leave on our lives and in our hearts.
I feel lucky to have met some amazing people so far along this journey. Between the nurses, doctors, and everyone involved at Columbia and the National Cancer Institute, it's touching to see how many people truly care. And they have to know from the beginning that they can't save everyone, it's just a part of the job description. I admire their ability to persevere, though I doubt whether or not I'm constructed with the emotional fortitude necessary to do what they do.
And then there are those who enter our lives when we least expect them to, seemingly out of thin air, with the ability to change everything without doing anything at all. Like a moth to a flame, we follow their light, unquestioning, and relying on faith that their guidance will uplift our floundering spirits. Of course, these people may not always live up to the billing, or our expectations for them, but then again sometimes they do. And when they do, it's like waking up to a different world. Possibility and adrenaline overshadow uncertainty, and we're given a glimpse of the way life could be; the way it should be.
Once we've tasted that life, that unbridled joy, even for a moment, it's pretty hard to imagine letting it go again. Why would we? Why would we ever want to or have to? I want to be inspired, and I've been given hope; hope that may carry me through these next few months, and hope that this life can still offer me wonderful things that I've not yet come across. But right now, today, there's a pain inside of me that I can't shed, because I don't want to lose that hope and I don't want to go back to my old world.
It doesn't make sense that we could so easily be so happy, but circumstances so far out of our control, or even our realm of influence, dictate our conditions and dole out our pain. I don't use the word "fair" anymore; it's a useless thought that breeds only frustration.
I feel like I've been given the greatest gift one can receive in this life, and for that I am eternally grateful. But in this cancer world, nobody is safe, and I can't keep anyone safe, even those I wish I could more than anything. I suppose that's a fact of life in any case, though, unconfined by the characteristics of illness and disease.
So I'm going to be brave in the face of unshakable uncertainty, and I would never dream of giving back what I have gained. I'll hold onto it as long as I can, because it's changed me, and I'm not going back to the way I was before.
I can't decide the future, regardless of how content I think I could be with what I've found. But I've learned that things can always change, and things can always get better. And, even in spite of the most unlikely odds, people can get better. Odds are just numbers, while people can accomplish amazing things, and miracles do happen. I've got to hold onto that belief, and somehow I've got to have faith that things can turn around, and that I may still end up with what I want. And I know I'll never lose hope. I couldn't, because she, hope, found me.
That said, I still can't help being scared sometimes. It's just the honest truth; sometimes, I'm really scared that chemo will stop working, or radiation or these vaccines that are supposed to keep the tumor from returning just won't work and it will come back stronger than ever. One thing I know is that when I finish all of this treatment, I never ever want to endure it again.
But that's the problem, isn't it? There's always uncertainty, no matter what the situation is. It seems that death might be the only real certainty in life.
It wasn't until I got sick that I really understood how one day is never guaranteed from the next. It's difficult to see each day as a blessing, especially when I feel there's so much on which I've been missing out. It's easy to forget that I am still living, I'm still feeling, and I know I'll never stop dreaming.
But death is an inevitable part of life, and unfortunately, it appears to be prevalent in this cancer world; a world I never asked to be a part of, or to be granted access, but it is a world of uncertainty in which I find myself at any rate.
For months, I tore apart my daily life searching for hope, but found nothing but the same familiar loneliness and those same unanswerable questions.
People find unpredictable ways of entering our worlds, and we can't just close ourselves off to them. At least, I can't. The sad part is that we never know how people will leave our worlds, either, though we can anticipate the impact they will leave on our lives and in our hearts.
I feel lucky to have met some amazing people so far along this journey. Between the nurses, doctors, and everyone involved at Columbia and the National Cancer Institute, it's touching to see how many people truly care. And they have to know from the beginning that they can't save everyone, it's just a part of the job description. I admire their ability to persevere, though I doubt whether or not I'm constructed with the emotional fortitude necessary to do what they do.
And then there are those who enter our lives when we least expect them to, seemingly out of thin air, with the ability to change everything without doing anything at all. Like a moth to a flame, we follow their light, unquestioning, and relying on faith that their guidance will uplift our floundering spirits. Of course, these people may not always live up to the billing, or our expectations for them, but then again sometimes they do. And when they do, it's like waking up to a different world. Possibility and adrenaline overshadow uncertainty, and we're given a glimpse of the way life could be; the way it should be.
Once we've tasted that life, that unbridled joy, even for a moment, it's pretty hard to imagine letting it go again. Why would we? Why would we ever want to or have to? I want to be inspired, and I've been given hope; hope that may carry me through these next few months, and hope that this life can still offer me wonderful things that I've not yet come across. But right now, today, there's a pain inside of me that I can't shed, because I don't want to lose that hope and I don't want to go back to my old world.
It doesn't make sense that we could so easily be so happy, but circumstances so far out of our control, or even our realm of influence, dictate our conditions and dole out our pain. I don't use the word "fair" anymore; it's a useless thought that breeds only frustration.
I feel like I've been given the greatest gift one can receive in this life, and for that I am eternally grateful. But in this cancer world, nobody is safe, and I can't keep anyone safe, even those I wish I could more than anything. I suppose that's a fact of life in any case, though, unconfined by the characteristics of illness and disease.
So I'm going to be brave in the face of unshakable uncertainty, and I would never dream of giving back what I have gained. I'll hold onto it as long as I can, because it's changed me, and I'm not going back to the way I was before.
I can't decide the future, regardless of how content I think I could be with what I've found. But I've learned that things can always change, and things can always get better. And, even in spite of the most unlikely odds, people can get better. Odds are just numbers, while people can accomplish amazing things, and miracles do happen. I've got to hold onto that belief, and somehow I've got to have faith that things can turn around, and that I may still end up with what I want. And I know I'll never lose hope. I couldn't, because she, hope, found me.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Rainy Days
It's been raining all day today, the last day of November. If you ask me, it's time for the rain to turn into snow and release the beauty of winter.
When I was growing up, I loved the rain. I would always take the basketball out into the driveway and shoot around, and it was special when it rained. I would stay out there for hours, listening to nothing but the sound of the raindrops on the pavement and the pounding of the ball against the wet concrete. I always had the street to myself; people would disappear inside their houses when it rained, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the wind in the trees.
I would think about anything and everything those days. I took the time to appreciate the things that made me happy, and I gave thought to the things that needed figuring out. I dreamed about the future; college, basketball, girls. I always thought about girls.
Left to my own thoughts, I never once dreamed that such a dark, cancerous cloud covered my future.
Once I left for college, my daily basketball schedule was made for me; I was away from home, and I stopped having the opportunity to take the ball out into the driveway. But the peaceful tranquility of those rainy days is something that stays with me.
As I was saying, I would really prefer this rain to turn into snow. Winter can get so cold here, yet somehow I associate it with a quality of warmth. I think of bundling up against the biting chill of the outside air, and of getting close to someone because when it's cold, it's the perfect time to be tangled up with someone else. I, of course, have to avoid human contact like the plague, but I'm still looking forward to a fresh snow to warm my feelings.
Another month has passed, and I feel as if I'm getting stronger. I can still feel something in my bones, something that doesn't belong there, but it's not like it was before and I'm confident that it will be gone before long. A winter alone will be a difficult test, but I have a renewed motivation, a sense of inspiration, and I can feel that inside of me, too.
I look forward to snow, and I'll get through the year, though I'll yearn for the days that I've lost. I'll keep looking ahead to get to the bridge, if I'm sufficiently blessed, I will cross.
When I was growing up, I loved the rain. I would always take the basketball out into the driveway and shoot around, and it was special when it rained. I would stay out there for hours, listening to nothing but the sound of the raindrops on the pavement and the pounding of the ball against the wet concrete. I always had the street to myself; people would disappear inside their houses when it rained, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the wind in the trees.
I would think about anything and everything those days. I took the time to appreciate the things that made me happy, and I gave thought to the things that needed figuring out. I dreamed about the future; college, basketball, girls. I always thought about girls.
Left to my own thoughts, I never once dreamed that such a dark, cancerous cloud covered my future.
Once I left for college, my daily basketball schedule was made for me; I was away from home, and I stopped having the opportunity to take the ball out into the driveway. But the peaceful tranquility of those rainy days is something that stays with me.
As I was saying, I would really prefer this rain to turn into snow. Winter can get so cold here, yet somehow I associate it with a quality of warmth. I think of bundling up against the biting chill of the outside air, and of getting close to someone because when it's cold, it's the perfect time to be tangled up with someone else. I, of course, have to avoid human contact like the plague, but I'm still looking forward to a fresh snow to warm my feelings.
Another month has passed, and I feel as if I'm getting stronger. I can still feel something in my bones, something that doesn't belong there, but it's not like it was before and I'm confident that it will be gone before long. A winter alone will be a difficult test, but I have a renewed motivation, a sense of inspiration, and I can feel that inside of me, too.
I look forward to snow, and I'll get through the year, though I'll yearn for the days that I've lost. I'll keep looking ahead to get to the bridge, if I'm sufficiently blessed, I will cross.
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