Dear Friends --
Well if you're anything like me, you likely haven't worn pants with a zipper in many days. Every once in a while a good friend will ask me what it's like to have stage IV cancer, and I sometimes simply answer how thankful I am to live in world where the Good Lord inspired brilliant souls to create Lululemon yoga pants and Netflix -- mainly because you quickly become so acutely aware of what you're grateful for when life turns upside down. In the past I would get one of those "I wonder if she really gets it faces." No longer!
Oh goodness what a time this is. Many of you have been absolutely lovely by checking in on me since the Crisis de Covid struck. Thank you for thinking of me, alongside so many others, when the rather abstract words -- "those with underlying health conditions" -- are announced time and again alongside ominous warnings about this pandemic.
For today, I'm grateful to report that I am in good shape. Round of 11 of Foxy was a tad harder than round 10, but not too terrible either. For those keeping score at home, I have two more rounds until we get to lucky 13, and then we'll take another look to see how Foxy has done dousing the Itty Bitty and the Teeny Tiny sparklers in my lung. Most likely that scan will be sometime in mid-April.
Until then, like so many of you, I'm bunkered in my Covid Cave. We had to make the terrifically hard -- but right -- decision for Connor and Lucy to bivouac with their dad in Costa Mesa for the days ahead. My immune system is wildly compromised these days, so any way we can remove possible exposure is smart.
My days are filled with video calls for work (I'm certain by the end of this pandemic we will all surely learn how to unmute in a timely way), long calls with many of you, praying Biden stays healthy, diving in more deeply into the many books sent my way back at base camp, and walks where spring buds offer determined reminders that life does endure. Despite it all.
I'm also marveling at how we are all coming to terms with the fragility of all that we took for granted days ago. Just like that, the magic scaffolding of our lives has vanished. The big elements -- jobs, school, trips, some sense of financial predictability -- are tenuous now at best. And maybe even more devastating, the small moments -- a hug hello, spontaneous dinners with friends, the small talk with my dry cleaner, and seeing the guy at the farmer's market who sells the best raspberries, and who always smiled and called me "senorita" on Sunday afternoons -- are on extended pause.
But of course the biggest shift of all is that stunning realization that all that scaffolding we've spent our lives creating may not be nearly as durable as we once thought. So if there's a way to answer that question -- "what's cancer really like" -- well, it's sorting out a way to live without that scaffolding, and instead learn how to embrace the new architecture of vulnerability, courage, compassion, humility, empathy, and gratitude.
Sorting this out is hard work. Many days it's agony. But as our days ahead stretch into weeks, beauty will arrive, just as it has for me -- thanks to so many of you -- throughout these patient days of Lent. Heartbreak will be ever-present too. The mystery is how to weave the beauty alongside the heartbreak, which is what this long trek continues to teach me each day.
We're all on a mountain now. So if I have some friendly words of wisdom from higher up, here's my encouragement. Take turns carrying each other's packs, spot miracles hiding in plain sight for those who don't have the eyes or energy to quite see them, stay hydrated, change your socks, don't worry at all if you're on day 10 with pants lacking zippers. Hug those close within your micro tribe. Give waves to those a safe distance away. Thank the first responders who draw close to your trail. They are especially brave and show us all how to do this on those days when we're not sure how.
At night, when it might be harder to sleep, take stock of all of those voices in your life that have shaped your story. Consider how you most want this chapter to be told for others.
Pray for those who are closest to the heartbreak. Each matters.
And know that those spring buds will blossom soon, evidence that hope is forever a fierce and persistent fuel for the ascent. And for our lives.
xoxo
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