Skip to main content

Strollin in like June Cleaver...

Ever since I had the last drain removed I've started to feel, almost, normal. During this strange time when people of our state are being told to stay away from others and stay home. My Facebook newsfeed has been filled with people complaining about this time of being trapped in their home. Stuck with their family. Having nothing to do. Where as I have been savoring every minute of this.

I've been in this weird stretch, where I feel pretty okay but my incisions weren't quite ready to start radiation. So I've used this time to do all the things I haven't been able to do for months. I've cleaned all the things ever, I've reorganized, I've done some cooking, endless laundry, I've taken daily walks with my son, I've started doing my bible studies again, started writing again. In the middle of all this chaos of cancer and Covid, I have been given a tremendous gift - the gift of being a stay-at-home-mom, if only for a moment.

I used to say that I was a June Cleaver/Gemma Teller hybrid; given the right reason I won't even think twice about clocking you...and then I'll go home and slip a lovely potpie into the oven for my family. I loved my job, my job of taking care of the home and my family. I clipped coupons and made fresh dinners every weeknight, I was a prepper, a mom who was on top of it, involved in my kids lives, took care of my home. People say part of being happy in life is finding a job you enjoy doing, and I loved that job. But circumstances changed, and I had to head back into the workforce.

I'm always pushing my boss to let us wear jeans at work, but she's of the mindset that you should dress for the job you want, not the job you have. I always joked with her and said "Well I want to be a stay at home mom, and they wear jeans, so..." I missed staying home, I knew that, I've said for years that I miss it. But it wasn't until I was given this gift of time that I realized just how much I really, really missed this. I hadn't realized how empty I felt. This stretch of time waiting for radiation has been the happiest I've been in...honestly, years.

I'm cherishing this time, because I know it won't last. Soon, I'll be getting radiation every day and dealing with side effects, feeling like a cancer patient again, then I'll have to go back to work and this time will be over. It'll be back to regular life, back to the grind, back to just trying to survive the day and not let it drag you down. The world is in such a rush for things to go back to the way they were, and I'm sitting here, dreading it. I want to pause this time, to hold onto it, to be June Cleaver just for a little while longer. For now, I'm doing the job I once had, the job I loved. I will hold onto every day of this, every moment, because it is a gift - the gift of being the woman I once was. I'll miss her, when I have to let her go again at the end of this journey.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Being Mad at God...

  I've spent the better part of 2023 being mad at God. Mad because I didn't like how my life was turning out. Mad that I couldn't control that. Mad that He wouldn't heal me, fix me, give me my health back. Mad that I didn't understand why He wouldn't grant me that, to be healed. Mad that for the better part of the last year it's felt cold and lonely, as if a great distance stood between me and God. Only I didn't know if He put the distance there, or I did. I'm not good at a lot of things in life, but I'm good at distance, at building walls. I had to for so long, to survive living with those that were supposed to love me, and once I no longer had to build walls, I can't seem to learn how to stop. So there I was, countless times, laying bed bound, or on the floor about to pass out again, crying out in the darkest of dark, cold, lonely silence - crying out for healing that still hasn't come, for understanding of why my life has to hurt so ba

The path I didn't plan on taking...

Mom was 36 when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. I remember on her short treatment days she let me come with her, because by that point I did everything with her. Doctors appointments, tests, treatments. Where she went, I went. Whether she wanted me to or not. The oncologist administered the treatments at his office, in this dingy little room in the basement that looked like death row for cancer patients. Ugly pleather recliners lined the walls of the small room, you could hardly breathe through the dense desperation in the air. As if everyone was just waiting. Waiting to die. At that age, I thought that would never happen to me. As I grew older, I feared that would be me. When I turned 36 I was horrified it would be me; thinking that would be the start of my impending doom. My death sentence. The year I would be diagnosed with breast cancer. But that birthday came and went without a diagnosis, and I almost felt victorious, like I had made it. I had beat this thing that had at

I look like a cancer patient

It's not like I didn't know it was coming, like somehow I would be spared the inevitable. Every day, as I run my fingers through the shaved fuzz on my head, I look at my hand wondering, is today the day? Is today the start of another transformation? Is today the day I look like a cancer patient? And as I looked down at an empty hand, I exhaled. Today wasn't the day. Today, people would only still wonder, was I a patient, did I shave my head in support of a patient, was I a feminist trying to prove a point? They could only wonder. The other night while my husband was at his bible study I was sitting on the patio, taking in all the fresh air I can before the air turns too cool to sit outside, forcing me indoors. I took a long breath, ran my hand across my head, and looked down at my palm, covered in hair. Today was the day... I blew the handful of fuzz off my hand, and then pinched a small cluster and pulled. I felt nothing, it didn't hurt, but there between my finger