I feel like a goldfish (ok clownfish.) In a bag. I am headed to new waters. Unwanted waters. Unwelcome change. I was okay in the large aquarium where I was living. After some challenging times earlier in 2011, I was just beginning to like it in here again. The waters were calming and familiar. The scenery known.
But suddenly I felt the net entrap me. When it yanked me out of the water, I couldn’t breathe. I flapped around violently. The mesh was bristly. It burnt my skin as it tightened its grip. I have marks from my struggle. Is this what Nemo felt like when the menacing diver captured him? I’m not sure how long I can live in this net. New waters are ahead. Actually I think I’m already in them. They seem hostile.
I am still in the net fighting. Swimming deeper into the net, because I REFUSE to go through the opening. I know exactly what I am doing. It’s like a chinese finger puzzle. The more I struggle the more trapped I am. I see the opening right over there. Seriously? I’m just supposed to let go and drift into these deplorable uninvited waters? I’m getting tired. I can already feel the weary setting in.
We, my family and me are going to learn how to be a stepmother, father, husband, child, sister, brother, in-law, niece, and nephew of a 40 something year old woman with a low-grade glioma in her fucking brain. Left Temporal lobe to be exact. The prognosis for her survival could be better (like she could not have a tumor at all), but it could be much much worse.
Today is not the day for a discussion about what will be.We are focused on what is. Suddenly the future has a big black X on it. You cannot go through that door. No trespassing allowed. It’s in the hands of “the powers that be.”
And just what is the prognosis for our survival? Hmmmm. It’s a no brainer (sorry – my dark humor has already set in) for us really. We suit up, we show up, we put one foot in front of the other, we cry tears, we ask why, we scream “help,” and a few of us curse like sailors. We take care of our daily shit with a little less enthusiasm than we did bbt*. We’re going to survive. But this tumor – her tumor – is going to cut a swath through us. We’ll all be different. In what ways, I do not know. I cannot know.
I’m still breathing so I must be in water. But I feel the confinement of the net that surrounds me. I will flip and flop here for a bit longer and then…
…to be continued (one day, one step, one breath at a time.)
*bbt – before brain tumor