Truth time. Amid the seizing of the day, there is fear creeping in. It's hard to photograph your thoughts on the nights you can't sleep.
In May, 13 tumors were removed, along with neighboring nerves, blood vessels, and other parts of me. Less than 90 days later, there were already 5 new spots on my follow up scan.
So I have reason to believe I'm not at the midpoint of my life at 43, but approaching a tumultuous end. It only remains to be seen whether it's coming at a walk or a run.
I'm making Ben the mother of all photo albums (snort), full of shared experiences and my unquestioning love. I want him to have a mental slideshow of good talks, long snuggles, and belly laughs, because the unthinkable is coming for him.
Don't get me wrong, I don't think about dying all the time. I don't see my early demise as definite, just very likely. I haven't given up. I'm not living in anguish.
But I do carry it. I try to channel it well, let it give me purpose without desperation. I'm mostly pretty good at that.
But in this week or two before scans tell me what those 5 spots look like now, my heart feels squeezed most of the time.
