When we told the kids about my cancer diagnosis, I told them, “Not much is going to change.”
I thought it was the truth at the time.
I was wrong.
So much has changed since I spoke those words. It wasn’t a lie. But the full truth of it is that not much would change for them.
For James and the boys, life is going on. Mom’s still taking care of a lot of the things. What’s changed is that Mom’s also carrying around the constant awareness of cancer. Mom’s taking steps to prioritize her healing and can’t fully commit because there are so many other daily life burdens to balance.
This week, I showed up to two healthcare appointments. I went back to a holistic medical practice I’d been to before to see if they could support me in any type of non-radioactive monitoring of progression. They couldn’t. What made it worth my time was that I felt supported anyway because I left with some more clarity and direction.
The other appointment I had was with an acupuncturist a friend referred me to. This practitioner has healed his own lymphoma, and I’m so grateful for the safety, connection and wisdom he shared with me. I have some more specific actions to take as a result, even though I won’t be seeing him for treatment or monitoring.
As time goes on, my outlook ebbs and flows between full confidence in my body’s healing process and second guessing myself every step of the way.
Still, not much has changed for the boys.
As I spoke with the acupuncturist, I realized that more needs to for them.
Everything has changed for me.
Money is more than money. Chores are more than chores. Work is more than work. Karate is more than exercise. Time is more than minutes. Relationships are more. Food is more. Rest is more.
Everything is more than the thing it is.
If I was doing chemotherapy, losing my hair and strength, my burdens would be more obvious. Instead, I do the mom thing where I shut up and show up. I give and serve and continue to pour out more than I have because that’s the pattern I know. It’s more comfortable to shrink underneath the load than risk the mess of dropping things.
I feel tired. I feel lonely. I feel supported everywhere but inside my own home. This is how I’ve designed it. I didn’t do it on purpose, but here we are.
What happens next is up to me, too, I guess.
Thanks for following along. To support me on my healing journey, visit saradeacon.com/support for a list of practical ways to help. To make a financial donation, click the button below.