Less than a month ago I was working, coming home, preparing dinners and chatting and running errands and being a mom, a wife, a friend. The business of those days was a dream of ongoing tasks that filled my days like background music. It was, to continue the metaphor, a refrain that the word "health" propelled, a momentum of its own buoyed by a returning trust in the world.
That's been shattered. There's no coda, only a wrenched needle ripped across a record, leaving those repeated clicks between ongoing, amplified silences. I'm sitting here and it's nearly midnight and my life, what it was, what it used to be --
click.....
click....
click.
I have cancer again. "Again." The implications of that word continue to frighten me. And the thread of optimism is still there, but it is fraying.
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