Life is a hurricane spinning out of control. You blink and it's eleven months later and you are out laughing with friends. You've forgotten all of the horrible times and you just are. The present sneaks up on you. Time slips by so quickly. And I just can't believe it's been eleven months since I first heard those crazy words "we found a mass"...
I had a little meltdown in Mass tonight. You cannot just spring an "anointing of the sick"-sacremental-free-for-all on me like that. I need at LEAST a week to prepare my emotional state. For all of my non-catholic friends, "anointing of the sick" is basically just a special blessing where a minister anoints your forehead and the palms of your hands and prays over you. It is meant to bring you strength and healing, and underlies some of my most powerful memories. They are like mile markers, corresponding so well with every stage of this whole thing. Beginning, middle, end...
The first time I was anointed:
I was home for the first time since I was diagnosed and dragged my weak little self to Mass, determined to put on a brave face for all those who knew and who needed reassurance. Cancer really is just a series of comforting words and reassuring smiles to everyone else. I made the rounds and hugged and smiled 'til my face hurt. Then, just as I was leaving, Father Tim grabbed my hand and asked if I had a minute for him to anoint me.
Now up until this point in my life, I have been healthy, like insanely healthy. Not one broken bone. I still have my tonsils and all my wisdom teeth. I didn't even catch the swine flu when it swept through sorority recruitment in 2009. I had never even given the sacrement a second thought. It was for old people and people with cancer (I literally just laughed out loud writing that). Who ever thinks anything like this will ever happen to them?? It's always someone else. It's always someone else and never you. Until it is you.
I had been talking to an old high school friend and neighbor, Hunter, who I hadn't seen for years, so I grabbed him and his brother and called for my parents and sister. We all held hands in a circle next to the baptismal font. Father Tim said the blessing as I bawled like a baby, squeezing Hunter's hand. I felt so helpless and tired. So sick and needy. It was one of the first moments I remember feeling truly helpless in this whole mess. But, in that moment, helpless was right. In that moment, all I could do was cling to a prayer and try to find that minuscule bit of strength left inside me. And so I did.
It was just the beginning and I knew it was going to get much worse before it got better. So, I mustered up whatever tiny courage I had left and I put that smile on my face and I did it. I lost my hair and put my body through hell. I studied my butt off, even when I felt like crawling back into bed for a month. Honestly, I don't even remember much of anything else. PTSD or something like that. But there are some moments from that era that still have memories attached, like...
the second time I was anointed:
I was in Memphis and heard that they were going to be doing a special anointing of the sick Mass the weekend both my parents were going to be in town. I think this was around mid-February, right smack in the middle of the it all. I remember it so well. I had just had chemo on the Friday and felt awful, but was happy to see my Dad. And at this point I desperately wanted to be anointed, to find that strength again, because it was fading fast and even though the PET scans showed that I was responding brilliantly to the chemo, well chemo just plain wipes every ounce of happiness and strength right out of you, so I needed to stock back up. Courage on aisle twelve.
I was wearing my new wig, the dark brown sassy one with bangs. I sat towards the back between my parents. We sat away from any children so they couldn't cough on me. It's funny how I used to cringe with every sneeze I heard. I was fairly new to that church, but I think people knew. I mean, I was the girl in the scarf. The bald girl always has cancer. Plus I was bawling again.
The preist called us all up and I stood there with the others, probably the only one under fifty years old. I closed my eyes while the preist said his blessing over me and traced the sign of the cross on my forehead and palms. Even standing at the front of the church, among so many people I didn't know, it was just as intimate as before. I felt relieved for some reason. All the worry left my body and I was vulnerable again, as helpless as ever. I walked back to my parents and just cried. Public crying is kind of just a thing I do now, clearly.
This was the middle...the horrible awful middle. The middle is the hardest part of anything. Looking back and looking ahead become equally as hard. My life was all cancer, all the time. We were even learning about it in school. It was all I thought about, talked about, dreamt about. I was bald. I was tired. It was just the middle and I wanted it to be the end. Sometimes if I'm in a really bad place, I just close my eyes and wish for it to be the next day, year, anything. As if time really worked like that. As if I have any control. But, just like that I blinked and it WAS over. And it was...
the third time I was anointed (aka tonight):
I was just sitting in Mass surrounded by some friends. Corie and I were loudly butchering the unfamiliar music (we went to a different church because we overslept the morning Masses), when out of nowhere the priest announced that anyone who so chose could come up to be anointed. I quickly thought, "Yes, finally, I don't have to do stuff like that anymore! It's just for old people and people with cancer blah blah blah..." But, then a fear gripped my chest and I though maybe I should just in case. While I no longer craved it, I still couldn't say no. Then came the tears again. (See, I had very little time to prepare myself, which was not conducive to my emotional stability.) I held out my hands and took a deep breath as the priest blessed me. I walked back and sat down and smiled at my friends. Then I had the meltdown, right there on Corie's shoulder (It wasn't super bad noise wise though, I've kind of perfected the silent cry at this point, which is necessary when you do so much public crying.)
But this time I was crying for different reasons. I was so overwhelmed that I had just come out on the other side of that blink. Here I was eleven months later, and healthy again. I was being a normal twenty-four year old medical student and going to concerts and halloween parties and playing on the flag-football team. I was smiling for real and for myself and not for anyone else. I was crying and I was smiling and I was fine. And I am so fine.
I have reached the end of that chapter of my life. Most of the time I don't even think about any of it at all, but rather there are moments, songs, sights, smells, tastes that bring me back there. And it is in those moments that make me so glad that I have finished that blink. I closed my eyes eleven months ago, praying to come out on the other side. Now they are open.
I have opened my eyes.
Liv
will you feel better?
will you feel anything at all?
