Letting Today Feel Like Christmas Morning

Today, I woke up two hours earlier than expected with the feeling of it being something like Christmas morning. My last day of true freedom. Chemotherapy starts tomorrow and there’s a buzz in the air that’s calls to me, over and over, “this is your last day of freedom!!!”

We already have “pre-diagnosis” and “post-diagnosis” being used as casual household terms when we try to figure out the timeline of whats-happened-when, i.e. “When did your friend Olivia come visit?” “That was pre-diagnosis”. “I thought that was post…”. “Nope, it was pre.”

You get the gist.

I wish we didn’t throw around these terms like they hold equal weight as our regular vocabulary. They are heavy, much heavier, more meaningful and tragic. But at the same time, I’m not going to let myself feel a dagger in my stomach every time I hear them. Logistically, “pre-diagnosis” and “post-diagnosis” are very useful terms when trying to sort through the sh!t storm that has occurred since the moment I found the lump, to my flight to San Francisco, to the past three weeks of appointments, which are all seemingly blending together.

I know that when tomorrow comes, we will add a new list of terms: “pre-chemo,” “post-chemo,” “pre-X-symptom,” post-X-symptom.” I’m dreading it.

I’m sure you could infer that there are many thoughts running through my head right now. Mostly, I’m scared. I’m scared because I don’t know how this treatment will affect me. I’m scared to have drugs course through my body deadly enough to kill cancer, and kill hair cells, and kill anything else that grows fast. I’m scared to feel sick. I’m scared for the day I willingly opt out of a social event and don’t even feel FOMO because I know it’s what’s right for me. I’m scared for my sense of normalcy to fade so much that I don’t realize it’s gone until it returns again, and I feel mad at the world for all I have missed.

I’m scared that the positivity and optimism and strength that I’ve been priming my brain with for the past three weeks will shed like snakeskin at sight of first side-effect.

I am also scared that today feels like Christmas morning, when really I know I will spend it like any other ‘pre-diagnosis’ normal day. No doctor’s appointments. No symptoms. No chemo. I will have breakfast and see my friends and work on this blog and watch a movie and go to sleep. I recognize that the feeling of having a normal day is equivalent to the feeling of Christmas morning, and that is scary to me. May there be many many Christmas mornings in the coming months.

On the flip side, I know my fear is normal. Take my fear and age it a few months and you have courage and strength and resilience. I’m curious for what is to come, and chances are I will handle it with grace, and authenticity and love in my heart. Today I feel full and hopeful and excited and unstoppable.

So although it is scary, I will let today feel like Christmas morning. I will try to let the buzz in the air breathe life into me instead of spooking me to run the opposite direction.

I hope today, if an emotion like fear or anger or sadness is feeling dominant and loud and messy, that you can take a moment to pause and listen to the quieter ones. The hope that sits docile in the corner. The excitement that rumbles deep down below the surface. That little voice that on a good day, tells you that you are unstoppable. Sit and listen for a minute, because those quieter feelings are always somewhere to be found.

I am finding them today, listening closely, and quieting the noise of fear.

XO,

M