Moments in Time
“Live the full life of the mind, exhilarated by new ideas, intoxicated by the romance of the unusual.”
– Ernest Hemingway
When I recently returned to NYOH for my quarterly check-up, the moments of the last nineteen months came rushing back; moments of fear, uncertainty, but also moments of love and, like a lost traveler, moments of finally being at home.
The last year and a half has passed in a way that much of it is somewhat of a blur, while at the same time the moments that are not a blur are so vividly edged in my mind, they could have taken place yesterday. Nineteen months of an array of emotions that have not defined me, but rather have molded me into a stronger and wiser being, while at the same time remaining hesitantly optimistic. Emotions that still trigger fear, and loneliness. Emotions that sneak up at the least expected times to remind me how short life is, and how little time we have to be the person we always dreamed of being. Blurred moments that I have allowed to slip away, allowing me to block out the pain and times of battle. A disassociation of the past, merely riding the waves and only hoping to land safely on solid ground.
Each moment, though, a memory utilized as a reminder to hold on to the good times, learn from the hard times, relish in the thoughts of the fun times, and gain strength from the events in our life that, if we had allowed them to, could have knocked us down.
So often we allow these moments to slip away rather than soaking them in. We ponder the past, mistakes weighing heavily on our minds, not allowing ourselves to learn and move on. We fret on the future, worrying about the what-if’s before they even arrive at our feet. We focus on how much time we have left before we have to leave a loved one, end a vacation, leave behind our place of happiness, all while missing the precious details of the moments that are staring us in the eye, right in front of us at any given time. We lose the innocence in the present moments because we allow ourselves to believe we don’t have the time; our lives being pressed, always swiftly moving on to the next thing. We rush time away, beginning at an early age; wishing we were older, wishing our kids were more independent, wishing we could retire. Until those wishes eventually turn into wishing we were younger, wishing our kids needed us more, and wishing we were capable of working full time days again as our bodies begin to let us down.
We put off goals, allowing ourselves to believe whatever reasoning we have convinced ourselves of is more important. We allow ourselves to believe that time is on our side; we give in to wasted moments, arguments with loved ones, replacing quality time with our family with tasks we view as more important at that moment, only later to learn that that quality time is irreplaceable. We lose the beauty of our surroundings as we rush to our next endeavor. Never stopping to take in the natural bliss of the sights, smells, sounds of our elements.
We allow ourselves to become buried by meaningless lists of what we need to accomplish, rather than meaningful ideas and thoughts of what we would like to accomplish; ideas and thoughts that motivate us and fulfill our dreams. We allow ourselves to believe our dreams are unreachable, rather than making our dreams our daily mission; we allow ourselves to be held back by not who we are, but instead who we think we are not.
We stop taking time to get to know each other, we hit the surface without diving deep into what really makes a person glow; what their dreams are, their desires. We lack investment in getting to know the real person we say we love, care for, want in our lives. We lose site in their smile, forgetting there could be sadness lying inside. We ask how do you do, but do we allow time for a genuine answer; and do we then allow time for a genuine response. We lose track of the words we use to describe our intended actions, whether it’s the words we use to better a relationship, be a better employee, reach our personal goals, or cross items off our never ending to do list.
Every three months, I get the pleasure of supplying seven vials of my blood to check every blood level possible to mankind in order to assure all is well, or in the worst case, for the early detection that something is not well. Every blood draw over the last 19 months has been a mixture of living in the moment and disassociating from the moment, attempting to engage with the phlebotomists who have become near and dear to my heart while at the same time drifting into a different world to avoid the wave of heat that takes over my body encouraging me to pass out. My love for these ladies has grown with each vial of blood taken; they are sincere, engaged, concerned. And while they are not part of your treatment team, per say, and oftentimes aren’t even aware of your course of treatment, or in many cases, the outcome, they are your first line of contact before meeting with worldly doctors and are there to meet your nervousness with their kindness and compassion. I will forever hold a warm place in my heart for the care they have taken, and continue to take of me, in those early moments of every visit. The same level of warmness can be said for my nurses, specifically Donna and Lisa.
After receiving a clean bill of health from Dr. T, my world renowned doctor who not only knows all, but is truly a rock star, and spending more time talking about home renovations, the best Italian food in the Hudson Valley, and future fun she would like to plan for her patients than talking about cancer itself, we walked down the hallway to the treatment center. The room where I sat week after week, putting my trust into the poison running through my veins and in the nurses administering the poison. The room that would be the source of moments of fear, pain, growth, strength, dissociation, and newfound ideas for a life led by stepping outside of the box and being motivated by change in not only myself, but others. The room that housed the substance that would make me lose my hair, my eyelashes, and my eyebrows. The same room that would allow me to meet Kelly, forming one of the most vulnerable friendships I will ever make, knowing that cancer had brought us together and could very well tear us apart one day. The same room I sat in one year ago today savoring in the sight and feel of rainbow colored bubbles popping all around me as Donna, Lisa, Dr. T, and so many others gently blew around my big brown chair, allowing each one to land on me in such a way that let me know I had accomplished something much bigger than I had ever accomplished before. On that day, one year ago, I had successfully finished my sixteenth, and final, chemotherapy treatment. And I had finished in the same room that proved to be a mixed source of intoxicating fear and growth.
With tears in my eyes, Lisa first hugged me, followed by Donna. I immediately felt like they could see through the happy smile and the healthy dark curls growing fast on the top of my head. They could sense the fear that will never fully be removed from my mind, and they could envision the tears that still fall when I’m alone. There was an unspoken exchange of an understanding through the use of compassionate smiles; there was the flood of unspoken memories of holding my hand each week as the pain of the iv entering my quickly weakening veins set in. They were my nurses, but they were, and are, so much more. They were my saving graces many of those 16 weeks of treatment. They watched me with careful eyes, week after week, to assure the side effects of the poison being pumped through my body was minimal. To assure my veins didn’t collapse in the middle of a treatment; to watch without interruptions the first fifteen minutes of my Taxol treatments: looking at my breathing, the color of my skin, or any indication I was having an allergic reaction. They became secondary mothers to me, making sure I was warm enough, making sure I was taking care of myself and trying not to show their frustration when I had overdone it that week. They allowed me to slip away, allowing my mind to go to a safe place, to disassociate from the fear, and the uncertainty of having cancer. They allowed the moments to pass by, while assuring I would be cared for. And when it was all said and done, they were there to celebrate in the milestones and the memories that we didn’t allow to slip past us. The moments that renewed my strength and made me whole again; the unusual moments found in living life with cancer that had encouraged me to live a full life with meaning, no regrets and new ideas and visions. The moments that had taught me to take time to notice my surroundings, take in the clarity of nature, having the extra cup of coffee with a friend, holding on to that all too important hug a little longer. Embracing this journey we call life, and knowing and acknowledging the impact and importance of those around you. They allowed me to celebrate life, and love, all within the same walls that brought so much fear and uncertainty.
While a good portion of the last year and a half has been a blur, there are moments that will always lead the path of who I am now, and who I will be tomorrow. Moments I allowed to offer me clarity, and a vision of what makes life worth living. Similar to a good love story, I now write my dealings with cancer into everything that I do, everything that I see. I allow it to guide me and remind me of thinking positively, and finding the good in my surroundings. The importance of running outside to surround yourself in the beauty of the sun setting and the moon rising. The importance of leaving your feet in the sand for a few minutes longer, breathing in the fresh air and allowing the ocean to ring in your ears long enough to hear it when it’s no longer in sight.
The importance of enjoying the beauty in the rainbow bubbles of life, allowing each moment to reflect a different version and color of our true selves, and of our strength.
