Script Synopsis: “The Angel of Death visits a mental hospital to collect someone on his list, he accidentally reveals himself to the wrong person. After struggling to convince the patients of his identity, Death attempts to correct his potentially fatal mistake and demands to know which one of them is actually the one he came for. But the patients refuse to give up their friend’s true identity, even after Death insists that if he doesn’t perform the touch of death within the allotted time, the consequences could be disastrous. Death must resort to drastic measures and even joins the group sessions in order to win this deadly battle of wits.” – Cheating Death by Kamron Klitgaard
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We measure life by time. How our minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years are divided or categorized. Me, I love the clock. Lived by it. My belief is that being on time really means to be early. Being late to anything was one of the deadly sins in my book.
I loved sayings like “It’s been a great week!” Positivity always ruled. I am ashamed to say that I didn’t understand how people would let a bad day turn their entire outlook bad. I mean, come on, just pull yourself together and get over it.
Then life happened. To me. And I truly learned that the simple structures I had holding up the walls of my life were damaged by the weight of it all.
Confused? I sure was. I still am.
People have spent years studying how long it takes to establish a habit and how long it takes to break one. Then there’s the research on how long it takes to develop a new habit over an old one. I loved these statistics. And, while I do not discredit these findings, I have learned that for me, personally, there was a new statistic I had to deal with: How long does one event effect the rest of my life? Seriously, how long!?!
I truly believed that at some point of my life, should I survive, that it would all go back to normal – or as close to normal as possible. It’s been 14 years and I’m still waiting.
Here’s why.
It took one week from the time I knew something was wrong until I met with an oncologist. It took 2 days of testing to find an initial diagnosis. I was given 3 days to get my affairs in order and say goodbye to those I loved. It took weeks and weeks of in-house (ground breaking and heavy duty) chemo on the “DNR” floor. It took 24 hours to get my weekly (yes, weekly) bone marrow biopsy results. It took one meeting with “The Angel of Death”…..
Yes, I met her.
She’s real.
After a particularly bad few days in the hospital, and after one of the first times they called my Rock to get our kiddos and come see me for what would most likely be the last time, I was introduced to her. I was alone in my room and a sweet looking lady walked in and said, “Hey, Aimee’, I’m the Angel of Death.”
Ummmmm. What?!!!!!!
She proceeded to explain that her job was to ensure that I was in no pain for the remainder of my time. She then started explaining different options but all I heard was “blah, blah, blah.” Actually I heard what sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher, but I don’t know how to type that… She came to see me at least 3 times every day. It was hard to get away from her. 😂 (The DNR floor coupled with my current health crisis didn’t allow for much running around, but I did try. I digress, those are stories for another day.)
My measure of time was amped up! Seconds felt like years. I swear at times I could see, smell and feel time. So, how long would it take for me to get back to my normal life? I have survived, haven’t I? So, what’s taking so long?!!!
Here is what I’ve been learning (learning, not learned): time isn’t easily measured. I lived 36 years before cancer and 14 years since diagnosis. But the time in between – the “blip” on my life’s radar – forever altered every part of my life. For me there has never been a clear “before cancer and “after cancer.” The blip was ongoing.
I’m truly grappling to understand. Let me try to explain.
We’ve all seen videos of patients who get to celebrate their last chemo. I LOVE those videos! They truly fill my heart with so much hope. Powerful! When I was in treatment my oncology group used bubbles. Those fun, summer, wand-in-container bubbles that we all grew up with. During my months and months in the chair receiving chemo I would watch, tear up and applaud those who were able to celebrate with bubbles. They were done. They had completed something. I was truly excited for them. Hopeful. Their journey certainly wasn’t over, but those bubbles signified an end to something – to the current treatment. That’s a big deal! It should be celebrated.
However, in my situation, there were no bubbles. No quantifiable “end” of treatment. The research that was being conducted was ongoing. I would leave each Friday not knowing how long the treatments would continue. I still had bone marrow biopsies for testing, blood samples to be sent off for research, recovery time from cardiac arrests from treatment, etc. I can still hear the oncology nurses arguing with my medical team about the psychological importance of those bubbles. Their answer was that it would be worse, psychologically, if we celebrated and then I had to keep going.
Enough to drive one crazy? (There’s a reason I chose this stage play 😇.)
In the midst of my treatments/research I never felt overwhelmed by it all. It was my new normal, cemented in place by the weight of it all. I don’t remember how I felt when I learned that the other patients in my research group had all passed away, but I do remember others saying how fantastic it was that I was still here and going. I had cheated death.
But my reality was this:
• I had several brushes with Death and was assured there would be more to come
• I had met The Angel of Death
• Death seemed to be trying to find me but a strange dramedy was playing out all around me
• I was always in a holding pattern
• I was surviving.
I’m still surviving. What I’m just now realizing is that the 36 years before cancer and the 14 years since diagnosis pale in comparison to the “blip.” That time, from first realizing there was a problem until maintenance treatment stopped, was THE time that reprogrammed my thinking. My new normal was that of a constant holding pattern. There was/is always another test, another result, another opinion, updated research, new specialist visits, and the list goes on.
No more psychological holding patterns. Yes, my days are numbered. Everyone’s are. It’s time to get out of this holding pattern and live, warts and all. I’m not going to get back the life I had before or even close to it. That’s ok. I’m not that person anymore. It’s time to brush myself off and choose what’s truly important, put my energies there, and live without a holding pattern.
I’m ready.
The Time that is Given 