Rock

 I’ve experienced plenty of hardship in my forty-five years, but nothing has rocked my world quite like being told I’m going to die from cancer.  As an avid reader and lover of books, I’ve always broken my life into chapters.  Birth, childhood, marriage, illnesses and subsequent deaths of my parents, and moving to Demotte all warranted their own chapters.  Sitting in the oncologist’s office and being told my five year survival was looking bleak, I started drafting a whole new section.  Walking out of his office that day turned a page and I’m now on section two of life.  A total do-over of the chapter system.  Chapter one, section two has changed me into a whole new person.

Section one Amee was a fierce protector of people and their experiences.  I had a generous gift of problem solving and little, to nothing, bothered me.  I had a strong sense of responsibility to the people in my life.  Rarely, if ever, did I break down and be rendered “useless” in any situation.  I typically needed ten minutes to absorb something and then I’d come out fighting and ready to go.  As a result, section one Amee was a great friend to have.  Whenever someone in my life came to me and said, “I don’t know how to do this,” or “I can’t do this and need help,” I was the first person in their life to step up and help.  I believed with enough love and fire power anything could be solved.  Any problem could be overcome.  Any person loved and made to feel valued.  I understood the power of showing up.  My childhood trauma gave me a super power that allowed me the ability to see the emotional temperature of a room, and my forties, faith deconstruction, and training as an advocate honed the skill into allowing me to give you exactly what you need.  Since my retirement I’d become an awesome housewife – cooking, cleaning, laundry, acres of grass cutting, listening, counseling, advice giving, doing, loving, living.  I believed in the power of therapy and self-improvement and worked everyday in being a better person for not only myself but the people in my circle.

Day one of Section Two I felt a frantic sense of responsibility to do all the things that day.  What have I left unsaid?  Does Shawn even know where we bank, much less what bills we pay?  Should I go home and finish the book I’m writing?  Does the grass need to be cut?  Wait, how can I cut the grass if I’m dead?  (We have a lot of grass!)  Do the people in my life know that I truly, genuinely love them?  I appreciate them.  I want the best for them.  I want them to grow into wonderful people who love themselves first and others second.  Did I teach my kids everything in my head to make their lives just a little better, easier?  

Days two through today of Section Two look a little different.  Most days I want to say, “F it all, I’m staying in bed today.”  Then I see Shawn’s face in the morning search mine to see if I’m emotionally okay.  He looks a little longer to see if I’d been physically sick that morning.  Because I love him I smile and say I’m fine.  Everything’s fine.  

You know how old people just say whatever they want?  It’s like a lifetime of being polite and politically correct just expires at some point.  I’ve often joked with my friends that I can’t wait until I’m old and I just lay it all out there with no regard for human decency.  “Oh, that’s just Amee.  She’s old, ya know?!”  I call it the old people pass.  Section Two Amee cares about a lot less of the bullshit of daily living.  I think that might be a lot of what makes up the old people pass.  They just don’t care anymore.  The finish line is close and tomorrow looks different when it’s not guaranteed.  

This describes my greatest quandary of Section Two.  I still fiercely love and respect the people in my life but I don’t know how to be a rock anymore.  I’ve become a different person and a lot of the emotions I’m experiencing feel so foreign that I truly don’t know who I am anymore.  So much of my day is spent dealing with these foreign invaders that there isn’t much of me left to give someone else.  I know I’ve been pretty open about this whole experience however I don’t think anyone knows the depths of my anxiety, depression, or just how scared out of my mind I am most of the time.  I keep my “if I’m still alive then” comments to a minimum and only say them around a very select few.  I politely tell my friends, when they ask, that I’ve experienced a little bit of vomiting this morning and keep the diarrhea/vomiting combo that had me alternating between the toilet and bathroom floor moaning for two hours to myself.  I have no idea what I’m doing and I listen to my doctor’s recommendations with half an academic mind and half a mind quoting relevant “Office” quotes based off of what he’s telling me.  My body is tired and my mind finds it ludicrous that my body won’t perform how forty-five year old bodies are supposed to perform.  I find it equal parts amusing and terrifying that I’m the one with the final say in my treatment when I failed college biology twice.  Well, I got two “W”’s because I have enough street smarts to know withdraw looks slightly better than fail on a college transcript.  With all the money I’m spending to stay alive it is okay to spend money on a haircut?  I’m in unfamiliar territory because indecision is becoming a close friend.

Basically what I’m saying is that cancer sucks.  Illness sucks.  So far Section Two has sucked.  Go hug the rock in your life.  Chances are they’re feeling less rock and more rocky and could use your support.  Take her coffee.  She wants you to bring wine but alcohol doesn’t go well with the drugs she’s on.