At my recent birthday celebration with my writer’s group, I was gushing about what birthdays mean to me. “I could have died, but I didn’t.”
The food on the table was gluten free, a restriction brought on by my treatment. Still, I could drink the champagne. “Life is good. I’m so happy to be alive.”
Everyone present knew my survival story, but one of women added to mine. “My son is a different person. He wakes up every day grateful.”
Her son had nearly died a few months ago after routine dental surgery morphed into a life-threatening infection. She gets it.
“What’s different for you?” another asked.
I hesitated. How do you explain that feeling? It’s about time. “I don’t waste time anymore worrying about things I can’t control.”
Time. I recall a poem about time – something about it being too long for those who wait and too short for those who love.
When I got cancer, time seemed to contort itself, even as I wrestled back and forth trying to control its trajectory. Scheduled for dreaded surgeries or scans, it fast-forwarded. Waiting for the results, it moved into slow motion.
What I wanted most was to rewind it. I wasn’t sure how far back I would need to go – to the time before my diagnosis? No, because the cancer was already there. To the time of my exposure to the cancer causing virus? Rewinds aren’t allowed, just repositioning of focus.
It’s been nearly a year since my granddaughter was born. This past week a flight that took a long time brought her from a country far away to my doorstep. This past year for her has been about the gains that come with time– walking, practicing sounds, socializing.
Our time together will be forgotten by her, but for me, it is a marker of progress. I didn’t struggle with it being too short. I will note the time between now and when I next see her, but I am comforted by how kind time is to her and how much our time together means to me.
Mary-Jo Murphy
The food on the table was gluten free, a restriction brought on by my treatment. Still, I could drink the champagne. “Life is good. I’m so happy to be alive.”
Everyone present knew my survival story, but one of women added to mine. “My son is a different person. He wakes up every day grateful.”
Her son had nearly died a few months ago after routine dental surgery morphed into a life-threatening infection. She gets it.
“What’s different for you?” another asked.
I hesitated. How do you explain that feeling? It’s about time. “I don’t waste time anymore worrying about things I can’t control.”
Time. I recall a poem about time – something about it being too long for those who wait and too short for those who love.
When I got cancer, time seemed to contort itself, even as I wrestled back and forth trying to control its trajectory. Scheduled for dreaded surgeries or scans, it fast-forwarded. Waiting for the results, it moved into slow motion.
What I wanted most was to rewind it. I wasn’t sure how far back I would need to go – to the time before my diagnosis? No, because the cancer was already there. To the time of my exposure to the cancer causing virus? Rewinds aren’t allowed, just repositioning of focus.
It’s been nearly a year since my granddaughter was born. This past week a flight that took a long time brought her from a country far away to my doorstep. This past year for her has been about the gains that come with time– walking, practicing sounds, socializing.
Our time together will be forgotten by her, but for me, it is a marker of progress. I didn’t struggle with it being too short. I will note the time between now and when I next see her, but I am comforted by how kind time is to her and how much our time together means to me.
Mary-Jo Murphy