Another ribbon...

We're sitting in another doctor's exam room. Wan fluorescent lights flicker. My pulse quickens as I hear familiar words. Neuropathy, loss of balance, not cancer, fatigue, not cancer.

My hand cannot reach for his. I'm rooted to the chair...a chasm opening between me and the exam table. The neurologist takes D's history, and I am left, my breath screaming in my lungs and my pulse ramming in my veins.

It's weird being on the other side of things. It's weird to feel the helplessness. When it was me, when I was the one on the table, it was somehow both easier and harder. I took some comfort knowing even if I didn't make it, he would.

MRIs, spinal taps, 12 vials of blood, and the endless waiting. All of it so familiar and unfamiliar. The doctors' offices, the bills, the missed work. We are haunted by what we cannot name.

I get home from work, and our house feels empty. Our dogs quietly lick my fingers. The only thing I hear is the rhythmic sound of his breath whispering in a dark room.  How many times has it been my breath he listened to?

It's hard not to be angry right now. The "what a couple" jokes made privately sound hollow and pained from other mouths. I'm not mad at him. I'm mad at life.

So we wait, breath by breath. We wait, hoping/hating the answer that will likely come, to add another ribbon to our collection. What a pair we make. 

Secrets

The day after Thanksgiving is our traditional Christmas tree day. We usually go up high in the mountains outside of where the firs and pines stretch out across the peaks. Like D says, Christmas trees grow on trees here. As we wind up the narrow logging and fire roads, one of us dodges rocks, branches, potholes, and the other looks for "the tree."

It may seem early for these sorts of things, but when I am working I really only get to see the tree on the weekends and in the evening. This year I have a full five weeks with the tree. I almost pushed it off. Tradition strong armed us out above the clouds. 

On a normally joy-filled day, in the back of my head, in my soul, I kept a secret though. It's a secret that's been building for weeks. I'm tired. I've been losing my balance. I've been having headaches. I've been craving sugar. I'm getting worried.

It's easy to pull off each symptom and think about it logically. I had a massive infection the entire month of October. I couldn't exercise, and my balance is a skill I have to hone: it's not an innate right. I've been stressed out, and I stress eat all sorts of things I shouldn't. I've been pushing myself hard to wrap up things at my old work so I've not been resting well, and I HAVEN'T been exercising.

The three week rule can't be used until I address the likely culprits. So I will be spending much of my vacation waking up without an alarm and moving my muscles. Three weeks starts today.

I can't talk to D right now about these things. Each symptom promises to overwhelm him with worry. My friends have typically had two responses, "It's nothing. You shouldn't think that way," or just simply, "three week rule."

The "three week rule" is what I need to hear. "It's nothing. You shouldn't THINK that way," is why I keep secrets. Cancer doesn't care what you think about it. Positivity doesn't affect survivorship. I held my good positive friend's hand as she died from stage IV cancer. She was afraid, unprepared, lonely, and desperate. She really "thought" she could beat it, and she spent so much time not thinking about death that it took her by surprise. 

I've always tried to walk the middle ground. Both options are possible, and I have to be OK with both outcomes. This isn't positive or negative thinking. It's just thinking. It's just looking at the pieces of the puzzle and seeing possibilities not certainties.

In non-cancer life, my husband and I were remodeling the bathroom. We had two options for the sink, a cheap one that looked like someone had updated an 80s plan for what a sink should be and a nice new one with clean modern lines. We really didn't have the money so the 80s-come-again sink made sense, but the one I loved was the one I loved. I told D to make the choice, because I didn't care which sink went in. Either decision was the correct one, but the correct one for a different reason.

I think about my cancers this way. They may kill me, they may not. My thinking about them has no control over the outcome. It's salt over my shoulder. I have to empty myself of those thoughts that nag and beg at me. They make me tired. Keeping secrets is hard. Both outcomes are the correct one, but they are correct for different reasons.

If you are interested in positivity and cancer, check out this article. For a thought provoking short video on the topic, check out this RSA animation.