Coming Home

It was good news.  I let out a deep, soulful breath, unaware that I hadn’t actually been breathing (or so it seemed) for who knows how long.

But I didn’t cry.  At least, not then.

Four days later, I cried.  I laid down on my bed and wept as if I was being told for the first time that I have cancer.  I cried for my life; past, present, and future.  I cried for everything that cancer has taken away from me, and everything that I’ve gained in the last two years.

The last three weeks I have been doing a Deepak Chopra meditation on gratitude and grace.  But I couldn’t feel it, the gratitude, and it began to scare me.  I consider myself a very thankful person; deeply in touch and very cognizant of all that I have, my blessings and the love in my life and the fact that things could be so much worse.  But meditating every night I just couldn’t get in touch with that feeling of appreciation.  I felt numb.  I began to worry that one of the most important things that has been holding me up in my life may be fading.

And then I had my scans and heard that things are stable, thank g-d, and four days later I cried, and the gratitude flooded my body in a way that I can’t even describe, but it was beautiful. 

It felt like coming home.

So I kept crying.  I shed tears for the fact that I will never walk the same path as anybody else.  I crumpled to the floor with the truth that I may never have children.  I acknowledged that I will live, most likely, always wondering if and when the cancer may return.  I live with hope, optimism, strength and compassion, but I live with fear.  It has a place inside of me, and I don’t think that it will ever quite disappear.  I need to learn how to live with the fear, don’t I?  If I try to pretend like it doesn’t exist, will I ever truly be myself?  Will I ever be able to heal from the disappointments?  To set my sights on my dreams and go after them?  Because I’m still me.  I still have dreams, and I still intend to live them out.

And then I cried for what I know is true:  That I am loved.  So deeply.  And that I love, also as deeply.

So I let myself cry in the hopes of healing and I let myself cry for the goodness that lives even in the face of such fear.

And that, my friends, is cancer.

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