Detox the Busy
I am trying to manufacture to-do lists because they make me feel safe and important and in control. And also stressed and martyred and overwhelmed (which some part of me must like as proof of my importance). I am frantically trying to find new projects of the housebound variety like labeling all the bins in my basement storage area.
“Welcome to the Detox of Busy,” I tell myself.
Start with what’s in front of you
My job: to help Phoenix make it through chemo.
My worst days were the days I googled things.
Holding my breath
This strategy: holding breath, has been my chosen coping mechanism for lots of things.
Even now, I’m thinking it could be a good idea.
I find myself thinking, “I just did CANCER. Do I really have to do another hard thing? Can I just hold my breath and wait for this to pass?”
It bears mentioning here that another one of my chosen nightmares was the apocalyptic nightmare.
Our strength is our softness
The architecture of our lives is cards and toothpicks.
And wrapping toilet paper rolls around it doesn’t make it stronger.
We want so desperately to be safe, to believe we have a home, to be able to close our eyes at night with guarantees the sun will rise and all will be well with the world.
Ashes on my forehead
I belong to a society of sufferers, a subculture called cancer moms.
I wear ashes on my face because I know the truth in my brittle burnable bones: we are dust and to dust we will return, and most of what we do in between is also dust.
These ashes are the visible marker.
These ashes are the “live like you could die tomorrow” bumper sticker stuck to my forehead.
The Nana Tree
I start crying and choke on the words.
Of course, that’s what I’m doing.
Of course, I’m hoping the ashes scattered will become Phoenix rising.
Of course, this is why I’ve held on to this little three-inch urn for almost nine years.
Trauma Brain
Trauma brain is like the on ramp on the highway with the stoplight that lets only one or two cars through before it turns red again.
I can hear the blink blink of the red light, protecting me from information and emotional overload. The traffic of my thoughts has to slow down otherwise I will crash. If I think and feel ALL OF IT all at once, I will explode.
Smoke em while you got em
I want to secure my hope. Tether it to facts and action-whatever works for the day to stave off the panic. Research the shit out of it and do every single thing I can to help him live.
But the truth is, me pushing every last supplement down Phoenix's throat does not guarantee any bit of saving from pain.
It keeps him aware he is sick, and the hovering high-pitched spirit I do it in communicates that I am NOT OK and because I am NOT OK, I cannot let him be OK.