Yesterday was another day of cancer normal. I feel normal. Greta was passed between my mom and I all day and didn’t seem to mind at all. (Okay, so that is not normal, but I like it!) I’ve had short hair now for five or six days; I am used to it. My day was filled very ordinary, even boring, tasks. Dare I say, cancer is normal to me now? Brad and I told my parents about my cancer the day I was diagnosed while Maren was at dance class three weeks ago. Preschool started again yesterday, next week she has her dance photos, Saturday is her first soccer game. We are settling into our new routine. Greta learned to climb stairs (Lord help me). I have chemo treatment two of sixteen (if all goes according to plan) on Thursday. We have an inner circle who have made changes to their daily/weekly routines to live life with us. Our childcare bumps are smoothing out and my girls are thriving. The business and happiness that is our life is going on and we are just figuring it out, one day at a time. It feels okay; it feels normal. And–I am happy. I have a reservoir of hope and joy that feels full.
Yesterday, as part of my new normal, I spent nearly three hours writing thank you notes and communicating back to people. I struggled then, and I struggle now to find words that encompass the deep well of gratitude that sustains me. I was at a coffee shop. (In a past life I dreamed of having busy and important things to do at coffee shops while instead, I cruised by on my way to grocery store with two kids and a long list.) My hand cramped for the first time in a loooong time as I tried to describe the impact that kindness has had one me over the past three weeks. Last night I drove wishing I could write-and-drive thinking of more people to write, more gifts. I need them to know how much they matter.
I have intentions of following up on many of the hundreds of blog comments to family, friends and strangers who have touched me with their words and heartfelt sentiment. Each time someone comments on my blog, I get a message on my phone so that I can read it in real time. Initially, I found this somewhat overwhelming and intended to turn the feature off. Stumped by technology again, I am happy that I never learned how to change it. The mornings of my port and biopsy surgeries, I sat, waiting with Brad, and I was peppered with messages and prayers. Still, as I go about my day, I get to read about a loved one–near or far–who is thinking of me at that very moment. Strangers, oh the strangers. I do not doubt the words, prayers and gifts that strangers are giving to me. But I am having such. a. hard. time. explaining to myself why they (you) are reaching out in such profound ways with words and gifts and prayers.
So this morning, I do not feel witty or intelligent. I feel muddled in thought and inarticulate. It is hard to offer up this humble blog post. I am trying to say thank you for loving me. My cup runneth over.
Cancer is small. Love is big.