Beautiful essay, as always, and this one hit close to home. My mom is 80, lives with us, and has had surgery and radiation this year for breast cancer. It makes you look at everything differently.
It was my brother and sister-in-law's anniversary recently, and instead of getting some random object, we chose to take them out to dinner so we can just be together. We're going tomight. Those moments become much more precious when you've experienced something like that, even if it turned out to be nothing.
And the thought of you snuggling with your 18-year-old brought a gift smile to my face! He's still your little boy, even if he's 6' tall. Precious!
I'm so sorry about your mom. Things like that sure do change perspective though. But so scary.
As I've gotten older, I've stopped giving tangible gifts, myself, just experiences, because time together is so much better than anything that comes in a box. Unless it's candy, I do like candy!🤪.
And thank you for your words about my 18-year-old, he is such a gem. I'm gonna die a little when he goes to college in the fall.
I got anxious reading this letter. I'm just glad it turned out to be nothing.
It's crazy how fear can make us catastrophize, and the world close in on us. But maybe that's good. Maybe It's a good thing that you have something you love to lose. It makes you want to fight.
But I also understand your concern of putting your loved ones through a terrible time should the worst happen. That kind of guilt is not talked about enough, especially since it could eat you from the inside.
I hope you went back home and snuggled with all your boys once again. Let them help you shed all those fears. ❤️❤️
This is so lovely, as your messages always are. I did snuggle my boys and I do snuggle them. Every chance I get. I'm probably a pretty annoying mom actually.😉
I'm so sorry you had to experience that. I've been there more times than I care to remember. I do carry a genetic predisposition for cancer so sometimes life feels like learning to live between the scans.
I think the most frightening thing about death for me is knowing just how difficult that will be for the ones you leave behind.
I know I'm so lucky that it turned out to be nothing. But it did become one of those moments that sharpens what matters. In retrospect that part is a gift.
As always, you articulate the feeling so beautifully. When I was diagnosed with breast cancer for the second time, my daughter was six. I went into soldier mode, tapping into magical thinking every step of the way. So wish I had the tools and sense of safety to acknowledge and engage with the abject fear et al that was certainly surging through my system.
Thank you and thank you for sharing your own experience. I'm so sorry you had to go through that. I have to say, sometimes going into soldier mode is highly functional and we just can't process until we are through it. I've experienced that many many times in my life. And of course, it's never too late to process.🤪
Well, I probably shouldn't have read this yet, it made me nauseous to do so, but I read it anyway. And BOY, can I relate. I'm super grateful we both had benign results (I know we just recently met and don't know each other that well yet, but I already can't imagine my life without you in it), and I know the experience changed both of us. I can't speak for you, but the reminder I got that life can change on a dime, so be grateful for every day, has really hit me since getting my results. And today is the 30th anniversary of my first diagnosis, so there's that. The Denver Bike Club ride to Krispy Kreme was my way of celebrating it. Of course, the anniversary was never far from thought, but if there is anything that I can ALWAYS count on the make me feel better, it's being outdoors. Once again, it worked. If you read this before your Saturday run, have a great one! Life is short, so go kick some ass today, just because you can. 🏃♀️
I'm sorry to stir up such recent feelings of fear, but am so glad that your results were the same as mine. You had longer to wait and (I believe) had a far scarier close call. Pair that with what you went through exactly 30 years prior, and I really can't imagine how awful those days were.
AND amazing how the outdoors is such a reliable partner for you. That, without a doubt is a gift. And you made it through a terrifying anniversary doing what you love. If that's not kicking ass, I don't know what is.
The waiting room is where atheists, mystics, control freaks, and people who color-code their calendars all discover they belong to the same religion: Please let this be nothing.
And medicine, bless its fluorescent little heart, has a remarkable gift for making the calmest possible language sound like it was dictated by a haunted printer.
“We need another image.”
Perfectly reasonable sentence. Clinically measured. Probably written by someone named Linda who owns three cardigans and has excellent boundaries.
And yet, received by the soul, it translates roughly to: “Please report to the Department of Existential Weather. A storm may or may not exist.”
That is the cruelty of the in-between. Nothing has happened yet, but everything has been invited to happen in your mind. Your body is still sitting in a chair. Your phone is still in your hand. Somewhere, a banana is ripening with offensive confidence on the counter. But internally, the Senate has convened, the emergency lights are flashing, and Anxiety has seized the microphone despite not being on the agenda.
This piece captures that suspended place so beautifully: the ordinary life that suddenly removes its mask.
The twin bed. The limbs. The laughing. The six-foot child still finding room beside you because love has terrible spatial awareness. Three people in a twin bed is not a sleeping arrangement. It is a municipal zoning violation with pillows. And somehow, in that ridiculous crush of elbows and blankets and tired bodies, the whole sacred argument for staying alive is made without anyone giving a speech.
That’s the part that stays with me.
The fear doesn’t go where we were told it would go.
We imagine fear will point inward. My body. My future. My life. But sometimes fear turns outward, toward the people who have built their days around your presence. The husband who has already carried too much. The children whose ordinary lives contain you as furniture, shelter, weather, gravity. The ones who do not think of your being here as a miracle because, mercifully, most days they get to think of it as normal.
Fear is not always a prophecy. Sometimes it is a map.
It shows you where love has made its home.
That may be the most quietly devastating revelation here. The terror is not only, “What if I lose my life?” It is, “What happens to the people whose lives are braided through mine if I am taken from the room?”
Mortality is very rude this way. It barges in with a clipboard, interrupts bedtime, points at the people you love, and says, “You see this? This was never ordinary.” Then it leaves you standing there trying to make dinner like you did not just briefly glimpse the sacred infrastructure of your own life.
A benign cyst is a mercy. A beautiful, blessed, please-let-us-all-exhale-now mercy.
But the revelation was not benign.
Nothing happened.
And everything answered.
The appointment ended. The life resumed. The calendar returned to its regularly scheduled delusions. The bananas continued their arrogant little countdown. But the grip had changed.
I don't know how you do this. I'm reading this walking home from the gym and I am quite literally crying, looking like a fool of my neighborhood. Everything about this, Chris, assistant Regional Manager of Perimenopause, brings me right back to remembering how terribly lucky I am to get to partake in three bodies in a twin bed.
Thank you for this gift. One of many. And again I'm less thinking, who the hell is this guy?!
Sorry to hear you had to face that. I had the same thing when I went for my first mammogram. They called me and asked me to come back the next day as they had seen something they didn't like. The sense of urgency sent me into a spin. I was surprised how not-OK I was, and how much I spun into panic and actual terror, playing out illness, death, and loss like a movie in my mind. It turned out to be fine, but a very confronting moment. Three weeks later, a friend was diagnosed out of the blue with stage 3 breast cancer, requiring a double mastectomy the following week. I got to witness at close hand how the other version of that story plays out. It's such a stark reminder of how life can turn on its head in an instant, and has very much stayed with me.
I'm so glad you were ok, being called back has an unsettling effect, there are so many 'what-ifs.' I am coming up to 10 years 'no evidence of disease' and remember that call back following a routine mammogram that turned out to be anything but. Since then, I do think in months, each additional one is a blessing. Thank you for being so honest about the emotions we go through.
I'm so glad to hear about your wonderful anniversary, but I'm sure the fear never leaves entirely. I suppose the blessing is knowing how precious the moments are. Illness like you experience really can't change that perspective.
Great writing! I love the “limbs everywhere” phrase- it’s like that with us when our adult kids come home and they still will snuggle into bed with us! Such a blessing. I’m so glad your test results were all good! Due to my recent struggles I kinda relate to this essay. It’s a blessing to stay. One that’s not always counted.
So grateful for your share (as always). I know that in-between oh so well. The waiting ... that waiting can be the marathon no one wants to run. I still have to have testing every 3 months after all these years (21 ½ since dx Stage 4 Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma) and Yes. That waiting. It's just as bad no matter how far I get from when I stopped treatment. I definitely look at how far I've come since my dx and know if any results are not the "happy" kind, then they messed with the wrong human ... again. Grateful for you. Happy Friday!! 🌈✨️😂💚
I imagine the wedding is so much harder when you have had bad results and medical trauma. The few days of waiting I experience felt like more than enough!! thank you for this lovely note this morning.
Also, I forgot to mention. You and your kids snuggling in bed? That's the warm hug 🫂 everyone needs today. Your 18 yo wanting to join? OMG!!! 🥹
That big gangly boy melts my heart every tim!
Beautiful essay, as always, and this one hit close to home. My mom is 80, lives with us, and has had surgery and radiation this year for breast cancer. It makes you look at everything differently.
It was my brother and sister-in-law's anniversary recently, and instead of getting some random object, we chose to take them out to dinner so we can just be together. We're going tomight. Those moments become much more precious when you've experienced something like that, even if it turned out to be nothing.
And the thought of you snuggling with your 18-year-old brought a gift smile to my face! He's still your little boy, even if he's 6' tall. Precious!
I'm so sorry about your mom. Things like that sure do change perspective though. But so scary.
As I've gotten older, I've stopped giving tangible gifts, myself, just experiences, because time together is so much better than anything that comes in a box. Unless it's candy, I do like candy!🤪.
And thank you for your words about my 18-year-old, he is such a gem. I'm gonna die a little when he goes to college in the fall.
I got anxious reading this letter. I'm just glad it turned out to be nothing.
It's crazy how fear can make us catastrophize, and the world close in on us. But maybe that's good. Maybe It's a good thing that you have something you love to lose. It makes you want to fight.
But I also understand your concern of putting your loved ones through a terrible time should the worst happen. That kind of guilt is not talked about enough, especially since it could eat you from the inside.
I hope you went back home and snuggled with all your boys once again. Let them help you shed all those fears. ❤️❤️
This is so lovely, as your messages always are. I did snuggle my boys and I do snuggle them. Every chance I get. I'm probably a pretty annoying mom actually.😉
I'm so sorry you had to experience that. I've been there more times than I care to remember. I do carry a genetic predisposition for cancer so sometimes life feels like learning to live between the scans.
I think the most frightening thing about death for me is knowing just how difficult that will be for the ones you leave behind.
I know I'm so lucky that it turned out to be nothing. But it did become one of those moments that sharpens what matters. In retrospect that part is a gift.
As always, you articulate the feeling so beautifully. When I was diagnosed with breast cancer for the second time, my daughter was six. I went into soldier mode, tapping into magical thinking every step of the way. So wish I had the tools and sense of safety to acknowledge and engage with the abject fear et al that was certainly surging through my system.
Thank you and thank you for sharing your own experience. I'm so sorry you had to go through that. I have to say, sometimes going into soldier mode is highly functional and we just can't process until we are through it. I've experienced that many many times in my life. And of course, it's never too late to process.🤪
Oh I just love a grown up child hug and snuggle.
It’s the absolute best!
Well, I probably shouldn't have read this yet, it made me nauseous to do so, but I read it anyway. And BOY, can I relate. I'm super grateful we both had benign results (I know we just recently met and don't know each other that well yet, but I already can't imagine my life without you in it), and I know the experience changed both of us. I can't speak for you, but the reminder I got that life can change on a dime, so be grateful for every day, has really hit me since getting my results. And today is the 30th anniversary of my first diagnosis, so there's that. The Denver Bike Club ride to Krispy Kreme was my way of celebrating it. Of course, the anniversary was never far from thought, but if there is anything that I can ALWAYS count on the make me feel better, it's being outdoors. Once again, it worked. If you read this before your Saturday run, have a great one! Life is short, so go kick some ass today, just because you can. 🏃♀️
I'm sorry to stir up such recent feelings of fear, but am so glad that your results were the same as mine. You had longer to wait and (I believe) had a far scarier close call. Pair that with what you went through exactly 30 years prior, and I really can't imagine how awful those days were.
AND amazing how the outdoors is such a reliable partner for you. That, without a doubt is a gift. And you made it through a terrifying anniversary doing what you love. If that's not kicking ass, I don't know what is.
And yes, I'm going to enjoy my run today!
The waiting room is where atheists, mystics, control freaks, and people who color-code their calendars all discover they belong to the same religion: Please let this be nothing.
And medicine, bless its fluorescent little heart, has a remarkable gift for making the calmest possible language sound like it was dictated by a haunted printer.
“We need another image.”
Perfectly reasonable sentence. Clinically measured. Probably written by someone named Linda who owns three cardigans and has excellent boundaries.
And yet, received by the soul, it translates roughly to: “Please report to the Department of Existential Weather. A storm may or may not exist.”
That is the cruelty of the in-between. Nothing has happened yet, but everything has been invited to happen in your mind. Your body is still sitting in a chair. Your phone is still in your hand. Somewhere, a banana is ripening with offensive confidence on the counter. But internally, the Senate has convened, the emergency lights are flashing, and Anxiety has seized the microphone despite not being on the agenda.
This piece captures that suspended place so beautifully: the ordinary life that suddenly removes its mask.
The twin bed. The limbs. The laughing. The six-foot child still finding room beside you because love has terrible spatial awareness. Three people in a twin bed is not a sleeping arrangement. It is a municipal zoning violation with pillows. And somehow, in that ridiculous crush of elbows and blankets and tired bodies, the whole sacred argument for staying alive is made without anyone giving a speech.
That’s the part that stays with me.
The fear doesn’t go where we were told it would go.
We imagine fear will point inward. My body. My future. My life. But sometimes fear turns outward, toward the people who have built their days around your presence. The husband who has already carried too much. The children whose ordinary lives contain you as furniture, shelter, weather, gravity. The ones who do not think of your being here as a miracle because, mercifully, most days they get to think of it as normal.
Fear is not always a prophecy. Sometimes it is a map.
It shows you where love has made its home.
That may be the most quietly devastating revelation here. The terror is not only, “What if I lose my life?” It is, “What happens to the people whose lives are braided through mine if I am taken from the room?”
Mortality is very rude this way. It barges in with a clipboard, interrupts bedtime, points at the people you love, and says, “You see this? This was never ordinary.” Then it leaves you standing there trying to make dinner like you did not just briefly glimpse the sacred infrastructure of your own life.
A benign cyst is a mercy. A beautiful, blessed, please-let-us-all-exhale-now mercy.
But the revelation was not benign.
Nothing happened.
And everything answered.
The appointment ended. The life resumed. The calendar returned to its regularly scheduled delusions. The bananas continued their arrogant little countdown. But the grip had changed.
The twin bed had become a cathedral.
The ordinary had lost its disguise.
I don't know how you do this. I'm reading this walking home from the gym and I am quite literally crying, looking like a fool of my neighborhood. Everything about this, Chris, assistant Regional Manager of Perimenopause, brings me right back to remembering how terribly lucky I am to get to partake in three bodies in a twin bed.
Thank you for this gift. One of many. And again I'm less thinking, who the hell is this guy?!
I made you cry… I guess hurt people hurt people
OK, no I'm laughing and crying. I guess funny people hurt people too.
I was being sarcastic lol!!
As my teenagers say "I am well aware!"
Sorry to hear you had to face that. I had the same thing when I went for my first mammogram. They called me and asked me to come back the next day as they had seen something they didn't like. The sense of urgency sent me into a spin. I was surprised how not-OK I was, and how much I spun into panic and actual terror, playing out illness, death, and loss like a movie in my mind. It turned out to be fine, but a very confronting moment. Three weeks later, a friend was diagnosed out of the blue with stage 3 breast cancer, requiring a double mastectomy the following week. I got to witness at close hand how the other version of that story plays out. It's such a stark reminder of how life can turn on its head in an instant, and has very much stayed with me.
Oh wow, I am sorry both about your friend and about your own experience. It's really quite terrifying, isn't it?
Yes, I was surprised how much I really struggled to steady myself in that moment!
I'm so glad you were ok, being called back has an unsettling effect, there are so many 'what-ifs.' I am coming up to 10 years 'no evidence of disease' and remember that call back following a routine mammogram that turned out to be anything but. Since then, I do think in months, each additional one is a blessing. Thank you for being so honest about the emotions we go through.
I'm so glad to hear about your wonderful anniversary, but I'm sure the fear never leaves entirely. I suppose the blessing is knowing how precious the moments are. Illness like you experience really can't change that perspective.
Sorry, I need to wait on this one. Too soon.
I get that. Just for the record, I would've held it had things turned out differently. This one happened to me in March.
You're a real sweetheart. 😘 I'll read it soon. Just need a few more days to process, then tuck it away.
Great writing! I love the “limbs everywhere” phrase- it’s like that with us when our adult kids come home and they still will snuggle into bed with us! Such a blessing. I’m so glad your test results were all good! Due to my recent struggles I kinda relate to this essay. It’s a blessing to stay. One that’s not always counted.
You know, you are so right. If I could distill this down to one sentence, it is exactly that one: "it's a blessing to stay."
And I love that you are a family with limbs everywhere too, it's the best kind.
So grateful for your share (as always). I know that in-between oh so well. The waiting ... that waiting can be the marathon no one wants to run. I still have to have testing every 3 months after all these years (21 ½ since dx Stage 4 Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma) and Yes. That waiting. It's just as bad no matter how far I get from when I stopped treatment. I definitely look at how far I've come since my dx and know if any results are not the "happy" kind, then they messed with the wrong human ... again. Grateful for you. Happy Friday!! 🌈✨️😂💚
I imagine the wedding is so much harder when you have had bad results and medical trauma. The few days of waiting I experience felt like more than enough!! thank you for this lovely note this morning.