A fresh take on unfairness
Monday was a rough day. I met with my oncologist at MD Anderson, and she gave me news so sad that I went home and sat outside in the brutally purifying Texas heat and called my best friend and cried. In this journey I have had lots of people reach out to me with such love, many lamenting the unfairness of it all. But I have to tell you something: I have never, not once, considered having cancer as unfair. It’s not that I think I deserve cancer, but I don’t think I should be immune to it—to any of the struggles of life. I’m just a person, and friends, we are all in this together.
The earliest tears I cried when I found out I had late-stage myeloma were for my children because they need their mom. And then, for all the days I wasted complaining. I cannot tell you how I begged God to forgive me for not embracing the life he gave me. How many days had I allowed my joy to be stolen away by the circumstances and inconveniences of life?
As I was praying one morning very early in my diagnosis, I thought of David singing before God the 139th Psalm: “You formed my inmost being; you knit me in my mother’s womb . . . in your book all were written down; my days were shaped, before one came to be.” It occurred to me as I was contemplating this wonder that if God has written my days, nothing can snatch those from His hand. The mistake I made, though, was in the assumption that I have an infinite number of them. I tore each from the calendar and judged them as they suited my purposes. How many days did I throw away without acknowledging that each one was a gift to be cherished? In the Catholic Church, we are encouraged to keep before us the charge memento mori—remember your death. While it may seem a bit macabre to some, for me it is that not-so-gentle reminder that when I open my eyes each morning, I have been given something precious. And with it, the charge to honor what has been bestowed on me.
Along with each sunrise comes a grace I could never imagine. I can tell you with all truth that with cancer I am happier and more at peace than I have ever been in my life. No kidding. Turns out, when we carry crosses, God really is there every step to help us. Every morning I blink my eyes open, look over at my sweet husband, and thank God I have another day. Rather than live as though something has been stolen from me, I consider the wealth of each day. I am overwhelmed by the love people have poured on me—a richness I assure you I do not deserve. I relish the beauty of life in ways I never have. I find myself lost, teary-eyed, in every delicious note of Elgar’s violin concerto or the horn solo in Tchaikovsky’s 5th. I stare long into the intricacies of dragonfly wings. I am hanging twinkle lights in my office at home because they have always made me happy and because I no longer respect the reservation of giddiness to childhood alone. I pour over my favorite lines from all the gifted writers. I sing along to Earth Wind and Fire every time I get a chance. I remember how much I love the smell of waffles and bacon and the sound of my children’s voices and the majesty of light on the water and the gentle fireworks of hydrangeas blooming in shaded gardens. My family circles around me with such generosity, my heart aches with gratitude. My friends and I hold firm together like a chain of Red Rover where the enemy of sorrow cannot break through. As my children embrace me, I release myself into their unfathomable strength and tenderness, and I can’t believe they are mine. I kneel in Mass and cry great ploppy tears on the pew in front of me because I want these days to go on forever. How did I possibly merit such a life?
I won’t lie, of course this life comes with heartbreaking moments that threaten to keep us down for good, but you know what? As long as we get up, we have hope. We are alive to feel pain and joy. And when the time comes for these days on earth to come to an end, I shall consider myself blessed beyond measure to join the company of saints who continue to watch over and pray for us, while beholding the face of God himself. When you consider all that we have, perhaps God has been unfair to each of us, lavishing us with joy and beauty and sorrow and all the things that make up a life. I have vowed to drink up every moment of it. Yes, because I have been diagnosed with a terminal disease. More importantly—because it is what I should have been doing all along.