You could still be what you want to be
What you said you were when you met me

Daughter – Medicine

Some days this grief is the thing in which I drown.

Some days it is the thing that drowns me.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to share the first hours, days, weeks after that disastrous Friday. Even months later, I do not yet have the distance to examine it because a part of me is still in it. I will be blunt, because there is no point trying not to be: some news can’t be broken gently, it shatters all the same.

The one I love most has brain cancer.

“Some people get decades,” she says.
They throw me scraps and expect me to be grateful. And by god, I am. I am. And so angry that I have to be. As if twenty years would be enough, never mind the fact that even half that time is not a given.

Where do you live when the future is this uncertain? “Live in the now,” they say, but our Now is filled with surgery, radiation, chemotherapy. Our Now consist of treatments and the waiting in between. Our Now is holding our breath with every MRI scan, followed by a moment of relief that does not last beyond the realization that even the best news now can not give us back what we have lost. These are not the days we live for, these are the days we live through.

We live in small moments of joy and breathe those in, but I can not hold on to them. They’re too small to hide in, and burst the second you try.

I can not hope to fix this, but I do not know how not to hope. If thirty years is possible – and I know it is, someone’s living it – then why not forty, fifty, grey-and-wrinkles, more memories, more milestones?

I want the world for you.

I want a world with you.

One thought on “Sorrow

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