News

We’ve known since August my time was limited – measured in months with a ‘new update’ come March. Two weeks ago, Kijah asked what I thought I had left and I told her I’d be surprised to see Spring. A few days later, the doctor confirmed it.

‘Less than 3 months’

To me, I heard ‘less than 12 weeks’. My body tells me it can’t handle 12 more weeks of this. This really isn’t anything new, it was just confirmation of what we were told in August. Just seems we got here so quickly and I guess I just thought a doctor would tac on another 6 months or so. You know, some bonus time or something. My scans though prove that’s not going to happen. Technically, this is within what’s considered the hospice period. It’s been a brain battle ever since.

My mind has battled since then with the reality of my demise. It’s one of the stages I’ve not been to yet but is proving to be the hardest one yet. Cancer is so much more than the physical wasting of your body. Its so much more than the pain and fevers and restlessness. I told my mother-in-law today that the mental part of it is the hardest thing I’ve ever experienced. It’s a constant unwelcomed obsession.

At first, I opted to share my ‘new’ prognosis with just a few close friends. Why? I don’t want the death visits. That’s raw. Yes, I know. But, it’s the reality of where I am and I promised honesty.

I said from the beginning I would be an open book. This was going to be an ‘ask me anything’ experience so after sitting with it a few days, I’ve decided this is not the time to close the cover. This is time to be open, to be raw, and to take my journal entries as close to the end as I possibly can.

I see the changes my body is going through. My heartbeat is lower. My blood pressure, usually elevated, is within ‘normal’ range for the first time in months. My skin is pale. I’m in pretty consistent pain, thankfully controlled at this point with pain medication. Im constantly uncomfortable. My insides feel like they are suffocating if I sit up for too long. I sleep or rest most of the day. Thirty minutes or so of not being in bed and I’m exhausted…the list goes on and on.

We’ve still not told the boys. We are trying to push that conversation as far away from Christmas as much as possible so they don’t always associate their mothers death with the best time of the year. I don’t even know how to begin that conversation. How do you share with two innocent little kids that their mother is moving to heaven? How does that conversation even start? I know God will give us the words to use but it doesn’t make my momma heart think about it any less.

They often break away from playing to come find me wherever I’m resting. They rarely want anything. It’s mostly just to see me, I suppose. They’ll give me a hug or ask if I need anything and then go about their way. Yes, it’s as sweet as it sounds but if they only knew what those quick little breaks meant to me. I wouldn’t trade those little breaks for anything in the world.

When I cut my hair I was so ashamed of how it looked. Our sweet friend Danny had brought me head covers his wife had found for me. I used them for weeks to cover the awfulness of how I looked. Between the covers and a wig, I kept the hair I had left out of sight. I rarely looked at it myself. Denny gently reminded me at some point there are lots of people who would be thankful to have the hair I had. (No husband hating! I’ve got one of the best ones and his words were from a loving space – not a place of ill intentions) Our church did Advent this month and covered being grateful one of the days. It was at that point my sweet husbands words and the Christian trait of gratefulness colided. I removed my wrap and put them in my drawer and refused to touch them again.

Tonight, I found the strength for a shower. Unfortunately, this doesn’t happen daily anymore and yes, it bothers me to no end -another reality of dying of cancer that’s less than appealing. As I was drying off, I noticed hair all over my chest and stomach. I didn’t have to guess what it was. I knew. I reached up to touch my head and as I pulled my hand away, it was covered. The hair Id just learned to be grateful for is falling out. I sat on the edge of the tub, wrapped in my towel and took out what I could dropping it bit by bit on the tub floor. I don’t know if it’ll just thin or if it’ll all fall out but it’s a harsh reminder that even at deaths door there’s still lessons to be learned. Don’t get content with what you have. It can be taken just as quick as it was given.