Four years

Four years ago today, I spent a full day in bed. A hospital bed, getting scooped out and diagnosed with cancer. It was one of the more eventful days of my life.

Even still I am discovering the ways that that day has changed me.

One of the things that has become clear is the way cancer - and specifically surviving cancer - distorts your sense of self and sense of accomplishment.

"Hey, Bettie, You've just survived cancer! What are you going to do next?"

"I'm going to start a new career start a new family write a new book go back to college write a different book start a different career be a stay-at-home mom be a church secretary be a monk be a priest be a bishop no maybe write a book but not that book or the other one but a third one or move across country and have more kids and wait the life of an alpaca farmer seems pretty awesome maybe I would really love that and I could keep alpacas and learn to spin their fleece into yarn and learn to knit and travel to fiber shows or maybe I am going to be a social entrepreneur and start an art spa or get a degree in business or get a degree in nonprofit management or get a degree in communications or get a degree in creative writing and then get my MFA from an easy program or get my MFA from a hard program or get my MFA from a residential program that will mean moving again maybe there's a program in someplace like Nepal or Antarctica or Greenland or some other place that's even harder to live than here and I will blog about it every single day but first I should probably have a regular job so I can pay these oil bills and maybe that job will be my real calling and maybe I'll be really good at it then again maybe I'll be a teacher no wait maybe I'll start my own school no not just one school but a worldwide franchise of schools or maybe I'll write a book."

That's what's in my head every minute of every day, only without the nice spaces between the words. Instead of spaces, there is this incessant reply that groans and drones and lets me know with absolute certainty that no matter what I do it will never, ever be enough.

And that is why my Lenten vow was so utterly unrealistic.

I am so unbelievably happy to be here. I am so happy for all the ways my life has transformed. I am not scared anymore in the way I was before (eg: clinically, pathologically). If anything, I am clinically optimistic. Pathologically idealistic. I want to put on a show in the barn. No - I want to put on a thousand shows in a thousand barns. I want to put on every show in every barn.

Comments

[Rev Dr Mom]

I'm glad you're here, too!

And how was the baptism?

[Norah (not to be confused with Nora the Dog)]

I'm glad your still here too! Congrats on your anniversary!

[Karen]

I completely understand your transient train of thought. I think it not only goes hand in hand with surviving cancer, but is part and parcel of getting older, as I look daily to define what I want out of life. It's an interesting place to be in. And, I too, am happy you are here and hope you are here for a very long while to come.