Two days ago my mom was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. This morning I woke up to a cardinal perched in the distance outside my window. From the moment I heard the news, every minute away from her has been strenuous. Every other thought ends in welled up tears. But every minute with her is forced and fragile, I can't get away fast enough. Family dinner's are painful. I slowly make my way toward the door as soon as dinner is over. She's says, "Bye, baby, I love you."
"Bye. I love you, too. I might be back!" I say in a rushed manner. I have no intention of coming back tonight. I know it, and she knows it.
I stand in the dark garage. Silent. Tears stream down my cheeks. I toy with the idea of re-entering and staying. Most of me wants to curl up in a ball next to her and my dad in bed like I might have when I was 4. That's the only place I can see myself staying forever. The make up I applied for dinner, the attempt to hide my exhaustion and emotional strain stains my palms and is smeared all the way up my forearms. I make my way home, all the while contemplating turning around. I know I am in no shape to keep her company -I am hardly in any shape to keep myself company. So, I keep walking.
They say if you're going to have cancer, thyroid cancer is the cancer to have. I did my research, it also insinuated my mom's tumor wouldn't be cancer. Approximately 96% of all thyroid growths/nodules are not cancerous. Now, the research says 90 some percent of all thyroid cancers are 100% curable -or something...I have to stop researching it's eating away at my sleep.
The world is different. Everything has me on the verge of screaming and ripping things off the walls. The people who come to me complaining about things they should actually be grateful for. Jobs, partners, their health, the fact that they have a family. The people at my office who let our work eat away at their character, their hearts, their minds, and -worst- their friendships. (I must be of an odd school of thought, in my life a job has only ever paid the bills -it's never picked up the pieces of a broken heart or held a hand down the dark roads, it's never defended me against anyone or scolded a premature judgment on my account.) The music on the radio feels staged and lacks conviction. Even the sky is testing my patience, there's a haze so subtle I can't decide if it's my eyes or if that's just how it is. And if that's just how it is, has it always been? The TV's been on mute since Tuesday. I like the lights flickering against the walls. In the strangest way it makes me feel present, or maybe simply still connected to the world.
My friends have been good, their worry is palpable -as is their love. I still feel like some of them must be thinking, "Cancer? She's so upset about thyroid cancer?" I think that's the reason I haven't shared with my coworkers (who keep offering me chocolate and cookies) why suddenly I look like I've been residing in the sewer and can't stop crying. "Cancer? That's it?" I imagine them thinking that as their faces go from pity to horror.
Last night on my run, about a half mile from my house I found myself talking to the open sky. Before I knew what I was happening, I was repeating "Are you going to take her from me?" and sobbing. I'm starting to think this is life's version of therapy. I read a verse not long ago that went something like 'He never said it'd be easy, he just said it'd be worth it.' And a line from a song keeps playing through my head, "I guess we're all one phone call from our knees." Two days ago my mom was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. This morning I woke up to a cardinal perched in the distance outside my window. Maybe if my heart could stop hurting for two seconds and my mind would stop circling back upon itself every four seconds, I could catch my breath and be a functional member of society long enough to feel sane. I cannot even remember what sanity feels like.
"He never said it'd be easy, he just said it'd be worth it."
