Another tomorrow

So tomorrow (why is it that I am constantly thinking about tomorrows?) I go back to see my oncologist at Yale. He made this appointment fully expecting me not to keep it. Honestly, he assumed I would be recovering from surgery and unable to travel. Surprise! It will be interesting to see what he has to say in person. I naively think I will hear the same things I have been hearing, to get the ball rolling on having my records sent to Roswell Park, to say farewell and thank you. But if I have learned one thing from cancer, it is to NOT expect any sensible sequence of events. I am not holding my breath, nor am I fearful. It is just an appointment.

In fact, I don't even have any romantic ideas about sitting oceanside and drinking in the beauty of nature, of enjoying a few moments of solitude, of feeding my soul. No reflections on life, no focusing on the positives, no being brave in the face of potential troubles. Nope. No expectations. The day will be what the day will be, and I will take it as I find it. Or let it find me! Go ahead - I dare life to find me.

Once we invited my friend's young daughter (who was five at the time) to the house after church to play with my kids. She seemed happy to be included with my noisy gang despite her very feminine approach to life. We got to the house, and everyone was running about changing to play clothes, helping get lunch on the table, taking care of the usual business. Mary stood in the middle of the living room. She must have been overwhelmed with the bustle and confusion. But she didn't cry or pitch a fit. She just stood there.

At one point I ventured into the living room to check on progress, and noticed her standing there. I looked at her in surprise, and she crossed her arms over her chest, tapped her foot, and said in a v-e-r-y patient voice, "I'm WAIT-ing."

Puzzled, I said, "Waiting for what?"

With the utmost dignity, incredulous that she should have to explain such things to an adult, she responded with her most grownup voice, "SOMEbody needs to take my COAT off!"It never occurred to me that she needed such help. My boys had always been quite independent. But then, I had never had a girl and had no idea what would be required or normal for them. "I can do that," I laughed and helped her out of her coat, extending this extra care to helping her change, fixing her plate, sending her outside to play.

Me? I have *always* been extremely independent. I have never been one to stand patiently waiting for someone to help me out with things I can do myself. I have never played the role of the helpless female, despite research to the contrary which clearly shows helpless women get more attention (and HELP). I would rather run ahead and try my hand at things, even if I am not entirely sure what I am doing. I can learn. I have sought life eagerly, have run after it, have filled my plate so full it slops over the sides.

But now. Now I am learning to stand in the middle of the living room and wait patiently. Not for someone to wait on me, but to sort the options, see what the paths might have to offer, take just enough to fill my soul without slopping over the sides of the plate.

It's not unlike last night's walk home from the clubhouse after Drew and I had taken a swim. We walk up a grassy path to the top of the hill and down the other side to reach our building. Drew had run on ahead whooping and yelling, bouncing his ball, kicking it, chasing it further and further beyond me until he was out of sight. I struggled up the hill, shivering in the cold of the evening air and the wet of my bathing suit. Halfway up the path, I spotted a baby bunny nibbling tender grass growing alongside the flaming red rhododendron bushes. I stood stock still to watch. Quietly, I moved a bit closer, then a bit closer until I could see the frightened bunny's sides heaving rapidly. He stayed completely motionless, eyes wildly casting about. I sank to my knees and just waited, hardly daring to breathe.

Slowly, timidly, after a long pause, another bunny who had been hiding in the bush crept out, followed by three tiny little new born bunnies. They sniffed nervously about, taking a guarded step then freezing, over and over, reaching for the sweet blades of new grass, chewing, eyes rolling about wildly, ears twitching.

We sat there, the five bunnies and I, for a good ten minutes in the setting sun until they quietly slipped away past the honeysuckle branches and down the hill into the pine grove. I stood, stretching my cramped knees, and began again my trek up the hill towards home. Had I raced ahead like Drew, I would have missed the whole thing. Had I run towards the first bunny, I never would have known of the other bunnies, or the babies. I would have missed so much, and I wouldn't even have known what I had missed. Life had come to me.

There is bad stuff about having cancer, but there are also unexpected benefits. This one, learning to let life come to me, learning to be patient, learning to let tomorrow take care of itself and come as it may, this is a good thing. So tomorrow, I will see the oncologist, and see what life brings.