three months
“We call it “fall” with the wistfulness of loss as we watch leaves and ripe fruit drop to the ground, but it is also the season of abundance, of labor coming to fruition in harvest. ”
When I was pregnant with the boy child, a cousin I grew up with was expecting her firstborn too. We traded tips, we shared in hopes and wonders, we managed a weekend together about a month before my son arrived much earlier than expected. That same cousin offered a lovely meditation when I was diagnosed this year. Realizing that I would be going through chemo for about the same amount of time that I was pregnant, she encouraged that on the other side of all this would be new life too.
Is that great or what? Her thought has been a lovey go to, return to, and remember for me this year.
Distant Drums—Loose Park Rose Garden
As my cousin's sentiment crossed my mind again last Saturday, I realized that I was to the day marking three months since that last drip of chemo. No wonder I was starting to feel that coming around the bend energy weaving its glimmer back into my days—physically, emotionally, personally.
Be it a new baby arriving or a bell ringing of chemo ending, the celebration of makes sense. …and so does the after—the fatigue, the adjustments, the figuring where your piece fits back into the puzzle. When life throws a hard stop on knowns, when one must adopt a new routine that then changes, when one seemingly loses traction on much that used to make up her days, it can take some time to adjust, to settle back in, to be patient with whatever new life the new normal is supposed to embody.
Parts of me would like to go back and chat with the three-months-since-kiddos-being-born self. Was she finding her pace again? Was she falling into a rhythm of sleep and predictability with those under her care? Was she finding the time to get back to so many of the things that brought ‘feel good’ to her body, heart, and mind?
“Some things cannot be fixed.
They can only be carried.”
It’s been nearly two months since I sent my final health update to family and friends who so generously let me land on their screens this year. I mailed that out on the www wire and then folded up my words and left them tucked on the laptop that I’ve rarely opened since. I needed to dial in on my people, my space, my home, my continued healing. I needed to roost in the worst of ways as the horse blinders from the race that I’d been running fell by the wayside. It’s like my body was gasping for air—a bit hunched over at the waist—wondering what the heck kinda marathon we’d just finished sans training.
from Emily McDowell’s empathy cards collection (her cards are some of my all time favorites, for all kinds of life moments and the people who matter in ‘em.)
A dearie in my life who’s a doctor—and expert on a lot about me—shared the following around that time. I was in that middle ground of treatment finishing, school year for the kiddos starting, and hmmmmm… now what? thinking. I’m so grateful that she braved the truth here as her words have felt like salve in this season of being. By naming things, she made me aware of things. By naming things, she gave permission to feel things.
"I’ve tossed back and forth telling you this, but I'm going to because I want you to be aware and not let this monster into your closet. I have had several very memorable patients who have BEAT cancer, but never recovered. And were lost. Because of depression. Because when treatment ended they didn't immediately feel amazing or recognizable. Because the work wasn't done. Because their body was slow to respond. Please know this chapter may be as taxing as the last one you finally exited. Please know that you are strong enough and that transformations take time and more energy than you will feel like you have. Be kind to yourself, find laughter. Your moods and energy may not follow a predictable pattern like you were able to warn your family about with chemo, but they need to know that the healing sometimes hurts just as much or is just as exhausting… but with the right rose colored glasses (that you absolutely rock), you will be able to evolve into the now and see the most beautiful, strong, unyielding parts of you and hold TIGHT to that which is your core, which is you…”
Sweet Jesus, I do love me some truth!
. . .and grace.
Grace to embrace who was and who is becoming. Grace to hear what people mean instead of what they’re sometimes saying. (with prayers that they’ll offer me the same) Grace to show up. Grace to rest. Grace to be okay with the pace, knowing that all that really matters is the consistency of one foot in front of the other, one forward fold before another. Grace to be okay with the not nows while I tend to the must and hows. Grace to be patient. Grace to be kind. Grace to simply recognize the utter gift of any given breath on any given day.
One of the other best somethings that a friend offered in recent months was, “It’s just not your time… yet.” She was relaying her chapter after bringing one of her boys into the world. She wanted to be able to do all the things, but her body let her know otherwise. She had to pay heed, and she gifted me with the permission slip to do the same. It’s so dicey to weigh in, to offer, but both of these hearts know mine pretty well. Both of these women offered not solutions, but an awareness of and appreciation for what their friend might be going through. Support and love is one of hardship’s beautiful gifts.
as shared by Maria Popova | Brain Pickings on 10.20.19
I typically don’t recommend books before I see them all the way through (read: possible landmines within), BUT… I will say that Megan Devine’s It’s Okay That You’re Not Okay resonates on so many levels. While she writes from the seat of sudden loss of a loved one, she manages to pen her words in such a way that any level of grief experienced feels validated. What a gift—the not ranking of suffering—while simply pulling up a seat, a page next to the universal feeling that any sort of grief creates within another.
When I finished chemo, I think I thought—I think many who know and love me thought—“Boom! Let’s do this! You’re on your way!” I instead needed to figure physical, personal, and emotional parts that were tender to the touch and aching. I wrestled with the fact that I was a ‘good cancer' ’survivor’ who ‘at least’ (fill in the blank). What all of that sentiment and struggle created was a clammed up quiet me who felt guilty at times for being one of the ‘lucky’ ones. That face staring back at me in the mirror was a new someone to know and embrace. …with a sometimes low supply of grace.
“Acknowledgement is everything.
This is not how you thought it would be.
There’s so much correction and judgement inside grief; many feel it’s just easier to not talk about what hurts.
We need to start talking about THAT reality of life, which is also the reality of love.”
There’s a keep shelf of reads in our home office—books that have resonated, books that have educated before I even knew I’d need such schooling. Read ahead. Peruse the pieces that maybe don’t fit your now, but could enhance your presence for and with another when they get blindsided by life. It’s not easy, it’s forever enlightening, it’s a good bit inspiring… to hold another’s story in our everyday coming and going.
Right above those books is this framed pic of my Miss. It’s a favorite. She was setting up an ‘art sale’ on Main Street with creations to sell alongside supplies for on-the-spot commission requests. I see her doing the work in this shot. I see her hauling her effort and her sit spot. I see her flair in her ribbon crown. I see her boots made for walking. I see the sun just waiting for her arrival. This ‘gotta go make the donuts’ shot always reminds me to bootstrap my stride, show up, do my thing, be my me, sing my song, live my now, rest in my what’s to be.
New life, indeed.
Rose-colored styling by little Miss, as captured by the boy child. They always remind me that outlook lends reflection for and with one another.
“What, then, of autumn — that liminal space between beauty and bleakness, foreboding and bittersweet, yet lovely in its own way? Colette in her meditation on the splendor of autumn and the autumn of life, celebrated it as a beginning rather than a decline. But perhaps it is neither — perhaps, between its falling leaves and fading light, it is not a movement toward gain or loss but an invitation to attentive stillness and absolute presence, reminding us to cherish the beauty of life not despite its perishability but precisely because of it; because the impermanence of things — of seasons and lifetimes and galaxies and loves — is what confers preciousness and sweetness upon them.”