Cleveland Clinic was last week and we were, as usual going in with no expectations. This, historically, hasn’t ever been a visit that yielded positive news. Even when I called my parents to update them, they braced for the news things had gotten worse.
Except this time was different. I felt almost mechanical when I explained that I was no longer considered terminal. “Chronic, but stable”. Better news than anyone could have even dared hope for. Almost ten years of a life on hold, survival mode the only full time job I’d ever have, and an expiration date promising both that I would never have the lifespan or time to do everything I wanted and that, eventually, there would come a time where I would no longer be in pain, however sad that ending would be.
In a single moment, an unknown future unfolded long and winding out of sight. A horizon with limited opportunity became a labyrinth of possibilities. Instead of joy, I felt hollow. Scared. Overwhelmed.
There was bitterness and rage. Almost ten years of living on hold, only to be shoved back into a variation of normalcy, normal’s bastard cousin because I am still sick and in pain and disabled, but no longer dying, suddenly able to pursue a life and a future previously unreachable. What was it all for?
The expectations mounted immediately. “God obviously has big plans for you.” One individual said. My own anxious mind began to race at the idea of how much I had never even let myself consider because dreaming of a future I couldn’t have led to heartbreak. Grief embraced me and chilled me. Now I’m left grieving a decade of time lost, hopelessly behind the rest of the world as I figure out where this new road will lead.
I will be happy. I will join my friends and family in thanks and celebration.
For now, I search for the path and start walking and pray this new reality is a good one.
Lemons and Spoons 