I buy myself flowers and place them on my nightstand. I like the varying colors of the pedals. Each flower is the same but unique in it’s own way. The flowers are an outward expression of nature. The outside world brought in. They force me to pause. To reflect upon their loveliness. Embrace and exist without cause. Without judgement.
My parents read my horoscope out loud every morning as a means to start my day. At first I thought it was cute and corny, now it is straight gospel and I’m addicted to its knowledge.
Love: a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, lover or friend.
Lately I’ve been reflecting on the concept of “love.” Since my diagnosis and tiresome (to put it lightly) treatments I’ve been focusing on what the idea of love means to me. What is my true dedication to the definition of love and all it entails? How do I ensure that I am allowing for the appropriate amount of love allotted for myself? Is there a chart I should be following? Some index cards I should be referencing? If I wake up every morning and tell myself “I love you” is that enough? What is love? L-O-V-E. To loveee and beeee lovedddd. An invisible and eternal force impenetrable to all things. Love - the eternal flame of excellence sought by all, conquered by few. Why are we as a society collectively taught to place a multitude of emphasis on the sentiment considered to be “love?” Loveeeeee baby loveeeee. I swoon, you swoon, we all swoon for ice swoon. But hold up. Is it fair to put such weight, such gravitas on a perception that has no realistic metric of measurement? Is it fair to not only be expected to love yourself but also to attempt the persuasion of another to offer you the amount of affection you desire? Some days, love takes a back seat to snark. Sometimes love is merely a passenger on the don’t talk to me express train to get the hell out of my way avenue. Cancer has shown me that maybe I haven’t been loving myself enough. Maybe I expect to find love in places when actually it has been right in front of me this whole time.
2 weeks ago I banged my hand on a door frame doing my best Ferris wheel impression and broke my hand. You heard right. I BROKE MY MOTHER FUCKING HAND. I’ll tell you one thing, I DID NOT need this. But alas here we are. Apparently chemo makes bones more brittle. Upon seeing my jacked up X-ray my doctor said,” It’s a wonder you haven’t broken more bones by now.”
I had surgery this past week. They placed 2 metal plates and 4 screws placed in my right hand. I’ve never broken a bone in my entire 37 years. But when I do something I do it right.
My dad plays the piano until midnight. I listen as he practices the same chord over and over until he feels he has perfected the sound. I love hearing my parent’s foot steps parading above me as I read in the basement below. It’s a strange and comforting feeling that I didn’t know I had missed. I love being able to see my parents every day. I love making breakfast for my dad and see him look at me out of the corner of my eye with a gaze of wonderment. Like he had never thought about my ability to be a functioning woman before this moment. I love observing my parents interact with my children and be an integral part of their daily routine. I realize that I shielded my parents from the saturation of my struggle. I didn’t want them to witness the pain and strife of cancer. Now that I am able to pause and process instead of survive I feel like I’ve been given a gift. Not only the gift of life but the ability to appreciate my parents while they are still here. And vice versa.
So now what? Whattttt nowwwww? I guess when life hands you lemons, you throw those motherfuckers back because even with a broken hand, no one is allowed to throw anything at you. And hey, I see you and I love you.
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