Thursday, May 9, 2013

Almost Normal

For the past four weeks things have seemed almost normal. November, December, and January felt as if we were in a nose dive heading straight for earth. Then something happened, in the canyon we leveled off parallel to earth but very very close, gliding, wondering when the fuel will run out, while we try to appreciate the view. Sunday I finished a scrapbook layout, something I haven't done since the week before August 20, 2012.  Melanoma man made dinner. The sun came out after a week of rain and running the pump in our back yard to keep the water from coming in the house. I went for a walk on the beach with my Stephen minister, Kathy.

I ran into a friend at church last Wednesday night. She has been asking if she could bring dinner for the last 3 months and every time I have said no. This week I said "YES." I put it on the calendar and Melanoma Man asked me: "Is this because of the cancer?" Well yes it is. So there.

Saturday I met a friend and we went to have manicures and pedicures. Well that's not normal for me, that's new normal.  I made Mother's Day cards for my two moms, birth and adoptive. Melanoma Man and I sat on the sofa and talked about a workshop for caregivers he attended  on Saturday. Admittedly he said I should have attended. I'll get the book.

I saw the new quarter sized black lesion on his right leg, trying to take in as much detail as I could, comparing it with the images in my brain of his past keratoacanthomas, melanomas, basal cell carcinomas, squamous cell carcinomas. This one appears to be a breed I haven't seen before. There is no reference for it in my brain. The blackness, along with another black patch worry me. I try to avert my eyes and Carry On as if I have seen nothing. His next appointment at Moffitt is next week. They will figure it out. I don't have to. Images of all the dressings I've changed, stitches I've removed, waiting rooms I've waited in flit across the screen. I try to turn it off. Be here now. Be here now. Four weeks at a time between cancer center visits, I tell myself: "Don't waste this time."  As if I can grieve ahead in advance of bad news.

This morning I wake up and remember our wedding day, fifteen years ago today, just down the street in what was then my parent's home. We packed a whole lot of living into these years.

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