For five decades, I had lived in a constant state of impatience. Forget the now. It was next week, the next month, the next year that was important. Perhaps because of a childhood deeply imprinted by a long separation from my parents, I was never content with my todays.
Lonely away from those I loved, I’d unreel pictures in my mind of the “someday” when my father, mother, brother and I would be a family again–seated around the table for a holiday dinner, raking leaves for an autumn bonfire or gathering about the piano singing mother’s favorite: “Bill Bailey, Won’t You Please Come Home?”
Maturity brought no improvement. I was never really able to bask in the accomplishment of getting an “A” at the top of an exam paper. In the back of my mind, there was always the next text, the grades I’d need for graduate school, what marks would look good on a job application.
In later life, my husband and I were often at odds. “We have to save for retirement,” I’d admonish when he’d order the most expensive item on a restaurant menu. “I may not live long enough to retire,” he’d growl.
My busy, busy mind was always looking ahead-how to arrange for, what to do, where to go if …
Yet none of this planning could have prepared me for my doctor’s news that day last year. I’d gone to him with what I’d thought was a simple swallowing problem. What a shock two weeks later when he looked up from the biopsy report and announced in a voice etched with concern, “Your thyroid is malignant.”
“C-C-Cancer? No, no, I can’t have cancer.” My first reaction was disbelief-this couldn’t happen to me. I’d spent two years learning to live with the disabling effects of a stroke 12 years ago. Wasn’t that enough? Now this! I zoomed into the future, pictured a tube in my throat, a grotesque bulge on my neck, life without a voice.
Frantically, I pelted the doctor with questions. “Is there a cure? Will I live? How long?” “I had a patient who lived with thyroid cancer for 20 years,” he reassured me. “Surgery will take care of yours.” His comforting words soothed my frazzled nerves.
Surgery did remove my thyroid, and the radioactive iodine I took afterward is the best known cure. Recovery was speedy. “You’re lucky; follicular cancer is almost always cured,” my doctor said. He seemed so certain, I too was convinced. To celebrate my restored future, I ordered opera tickets for a season that stretched into the next year, renewed my favorite magazines with a dollar-saving five-year subscription. With my husband, I pored over maps for a long-put-off vacation to view fall color in the Northeast.
Never had I felt healthier. Once again I resumed my old way of life. It was October, so I geared up for the upcoming Christmas season–scoured the stores for bargains, added brandy to fruitcakes, started addressing greeting cards.
We spent the holidays with old friends. During a church service we all attended, I offered grateful thanks for my speedy recovery and prayed for continued good health.
Prayers that weren’t answered.
In January, my doctor discovered a new swelling in my throat. More surgery. I bullied my internal dragons in hopes that adopting Norman Cousins’s positive attitude would eradicate my disease. The surgeon’s news was encouraging. “The prognosis is good. Only a few unreachable cells remain. Radiation and chemotherapy should take care of them,” he said.
My world swung back into orbit. Once again I began to anticipate, to prepare for, to fantasize about upcoming days, months, years. All too soon, my dreams were ripped away by the latest pathologist’s report. The diagnosis changed from follicular to insular cancer. I had a new and aggressive form of thyroid cancer. Not much is known about this disease except that most people die within a short time. If I was lucky, I’d have a year or two. No doctor would predict. With that stupefying diagnosis my future disappeared down a dark tunnel.
Without tomorrows to plan for, life lost its meaning. I was immobilized. Why shop for winter clothes when I might not be around long enough to enjoy my bikini? Why plan for a fall-color vacation? I might be gone before the leaves turned. Why order five years of a magazine that might have to be canceled after four or five issues?
Since my future had vanished, I was determined to live through my husband’s. I ran around buying shirts and pants to replace those he’d wear out when I wasn’t around to shop. I stacked the freezer with his favorite foods. I asked friends to introduce him to single women later on–those I thought he’d enjoy.
“Stop planning my life,” he shouted in frustration the day I tried to squeeze the fifth new pair of jeans into his overcrowded drawer. I burst into tears. My behavior seemed logical to me, but to him, it meant I had given up on myself. What I was doing was hurtful to both of us.
It was at that moment that I determined to live within the limits of my mortality. I’ve stopped waiting for sales. Now if I search the stores for a pretty dress, it’s to wear out to dinner-tonight. If I cook a delicious meal it’s to savor–tonight. If I stroll along the shore, it’s to enjoy a walk with my husband’s hand in mine.
I focus on the moment-hear the gulls squawk as they soar, feel the foam round my ankles, watch the blazing sunset. I’ve stopped scheming, prearranging, preparing. I haven’t lost the future; I’ve found today.
