10 years ago, without fanfare, I received an email from my radiologist that said “scans are perfect.” It had been a year of clean scans since my sudden and unexpected relapse.
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“I miss the old you.”
What they meant was the “fun” me. The “light” me. The “easy going” me. The me that smiled widely and laughed freely and stayed late at the party.
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Several weeks ago, I entered a dream contest through Airbnb for the opportunity to live nomadically in Airbnbs around the world for a year. When you enter these types of things, you never expect to hear back. You give it your best shot, imagine winning only for a few seconds, and then continue on with your life. But I did hear back.
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What I needed was for someone to come sit with me in my home because leaving - even for a few hours - required effort I was too exhausted to make. What I needed was someone to come sit with him so I could run to the grocery store or the pharmacy or to just have 10 minutes to sit alone in the car and cry.
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We talk a lot about what not to say to someone grieving. But earlier this week, someone asked me for some helpful things to actually say. Here is a list from the experts…
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After that, we thought we were done stepping in shit. We assumed the universe worked in a way that rewarded good people by avoiding future shit.
But then Brad got cancer (shit) and died (ultimate shit).
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I was a mourning widow and I was a 30-something with a desire to be touched. The latter felt like a betrayal to the former. I felt like a horrible human being and an even worse wife.
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Earlier this summer, I spent 5 days backcountry camping throughout the Porcupine Mountains in the Upper Peninsula. Over those 5 days, as I struggled with the weight of my pack, the pains, the moments of joy, and the elements, I realized how similar a trek in the wilderness is to the grief journey.
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I found connection as I paddled through the water, being followed by the Great Blue Heron. I found joy as I pounced up the rocks, remembering the childlike joy I used to feel stomping through the woods and climbing up trees. I found peace as I stared up at a sky so big and so full of shooting stars, it was impossible not to feel incredibly powerful and oh so small, all at once.
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6 months ago, my life - my happy, perfect life - changed forever. 6 months ago today, Brad and I walked into the Saint Joseph Mercy emergency room, hoping and expecting for an infection and instead getting a stage 4 cancer diagnosis.
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I now have to make new plans. The reality is, this road trip was just one of many plans we counted on that will never come to life. One of thousands of dreams and ideas and ambitions we discussed. It is part of a future that no longer exists. My future now looks wildly different. My future is unrecognizable.
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