Space and time

So that’s why no one has ever read a word I have written. Oh, I remember. I didn’t have time to write. Like ever. Writing, I have realized, takes time and space and reflection. The ability to let experiences bounce off of you, interactions with people sink in, things you read or hear marinate a bit before reacting. And perhaps a library reading room with snoring senior citizens nearby.

I went back to work three weeks ago, mostly full time, with the exception of treatment days. This is what I’ve realized. When I’m working (I can’t speak for all of you so I won’t try, but perhaps you feel the same?), there is a regimen. A routine. In addition to my work day, this routine includes loving and enjoying the people around me, surely, but it doesn’t leave space for the pause I want to take after listening to my son read his first. real. book. aloud. where I can wonder whether it was our recent library visits or the reading at night that may have improved things. The routine doesn’t seem to have those extra moments, where I can wonder whether a hug to my husband was too short or whether I should have followed my first question with a second.

Having the benefit of being unexpectedly off of work for a time, I can tell you that the space and time to think, absorb and reflect did really help.  I am grateful for that time. I found myself more able to accept and deal with this ridiculous diagnosis and the crazy treatment regimen that threatens to disrupt my family’s happy, busy, messed up existence. I felt more ready to engage with my family and reach out to friends and meet new ones. I felt just more open to connect. It was a gift.

Without that time and space these past few weeks, I have felt myself fracture in tiny ways. Things people say, all well intended, strike me as if I haven’t heard them yet, and like a ton of bricks. Kind glances bring me to tears. My scars, while hidden and so-much-better-than-many-of-my-survivor-peers’, make me angry and frustrated. The speed at which the initial portion of this journey went, though expeditious, efficient and in the long-term, the best for me health-wise, has struck me – and I’m reeling. Wait, what? I have breast cancer? I’m halfway through chemo. Chemo, wtf?! Me? But I feel good! I will be okay! I am halfway done! I am lucky! #blessed! But what the hell!! Why me!? Why us?

So I’m back, and I’m writing to all of you, for me. I’ve promised myself that myself will get this space and time to reflect. And to let it be in writing.  Because it helps make sense of this whole thing, which really doesn’t make sense at all.

I hope that I can take the gift of openness and love and good juju that began when I boarded the bus (it continues) and push it back into the universe right back at you. I do believe that what the universe has given me since this diagnosis has been good and powerful and has helped me and my family in immeasurable ways. I will disregard the fact that the universe may or may not have given me the stupid diagnosis in the first place…. we’ll blame it on the gene mutation, shall we?