It’s 1:30am and my bilateral mastectomy is in a few hours. Interestingly, I’m not awake because of anxiety tonight; it’s gratitude this time.
I stayed in bed for a while, watching my husband sleep. Seeing his chest rise and fall, I felt overwhelmed with appreciation for his strong shoulders, finally relaxed after carrying the heavy burden of our new reality for all these months.
Next, I tip-toed into to my kids’ room and listened to that heavy breathing every parent knows as ultimate peace. I wondered what they’re dreaming about. I hope it’s the two months’ worth of big hugs we gave each other last night. We’d squeezed in as many as possible before bed, because they know Mama’s “heart area” is the focus of the surgery.
I then crossed to the guest room where my Mom is sleeping. She got here last night so she can help with my recovery. She came in all smiles, arms full of things she brought from my childhood. She spent the evening laughing, playing with my kids, hugging me as much as possible and asking what she could do. She went to bed early, saying she was tired from the journey, but I knew better. She’d cried when she closed her door, because no mother is supposed to see her kid sick. She’s resting now, thankfully.
Finally, I hesitantly walked to the dining room, where the table is covered with so many flowers and care packages it looks like a funeral home. I’ve had a hard time with this one. I wanted so badly to not be sick, that I’d put the boxes here thinking maybe I wouldn’t need them. Grief makes us do weird things. Just a few hours away from the surgery, I opened one, then another and another. I read the cards, smelled the candles, felt the pajamas, laughed at the jokes, set the chocolate aside for later today, and cried at the thoughtfulness of the drain holders/pillows/face masks/lotion/grip socks.
I don’t know how to measure a life if not by the people it’s filled with, so I’m here in the middle of the night marveling at the show of support I’ve been the lucky recipient of. Last time I had cancer, only our very inner circle knew. I didn’t want to be known as sick; hell, I don’t think I even comprehended that I was. I’d had 5 surgeries over the course of 8 months and I only remember crying 3 times. I had a 6 month old baby and a 3 year old toddler, so I did what I had to do without much complaint. As my grandma used to say, I’m a “resilient little cuss.” I’ve never encountered a storm I couldn’t weather with humor, grit and a decent glass of wine.
I suppose I thought this time would be the same. Immediately after the diagnosis, I had a job to do so I headed overseas. I’ll admit it took a few more glasses of wine than usual, but I hunkered down and got it done. As that show drew to a close, I knew my next chapter was cancer…and that’s when the cracks started showing. I was very far away from my real life and it became obvious to me that the suppression I’d been using was no longer serving me or my relationships there. So I told that cast, which was a relief.
Shortly thereafter, I came home. As the pressure mounted in my chest, I turned to writing and released a blog announcing my diagnosis. It wasn’t a choice I feel like I made, as much as it was something I just did. It was a very unusual act for me, because I have a bit of a fortress built around my personal life. The blog was a midnight rambling (such as this) and I don’t really know what my goal was. I thought it might resonate with people since it wasn’t written by someone on the other side who’d learned her lessons and survived. I was in the messy middle. I was confused, apprehensive and afraid – nothing like what I felt last time. I figured it might make someone feel less alone if they were in the same boat – and if I drove one woman to the link in my bio that detailed self checks, it would be worth it.
But what I got back out-weighed my wildest expectations of what I could give. The incoming messages of support and camaraderie bowled me over. While the world feels like it’s falling apart around us, I’m having this private experience of feeling loved, seen and held by so many. I want to say something grand about how we translate that to a larger scale, but it’s the middle of the night and that’s probably asking too much of my tired brain.
Overarching statements about saving our society aside, what’s truly on my mind tonight is how you all quite possibly saved me. Truth be told, this resilient little cuss lost her grit this past month and with it, some sense of herself. Brass tacks – I will leave parts of my body behind in the operating room today and as it turns out, that may have been the limit of what my heart could handle.
You made me feel a sense of wholeness at a time when I was breaking apart. That is no small act of love; it’s a monumental one that made a real difference and I’m sincerely grateful for it.
I meant it when I said I don’t know how to measure a life if not by the people who fill it. Thanks to all of you, this life of mine feels beautiful, cancer and all. I don’t feel scared tonight. I only feel peace.
Chelsey Crisp Blog 