The prognosis is not good.
After returning to her country home from the hospital, the patient was hoisted in spirit by friends, family, distant relatives, community members, and lovely creatures from within the woodwork. Though surrounded by a clamor of hope, she could not help but notice the few relations who maintained their distance. With death’s gaping hole mere inches away from wholly enveloping her, she turned to see that the several pairs of hands she had initially sought to grasp had taken to their backs.
Among these ghosts were the mother still circling the drain, the father resolved to be a sperm donor forever instead of a dad, and the myriad friendships from the past and present. The realization of their absence was not the center focus. Still, it prompted a newfound need to achieve everlasting peace within herself and to let go of the possibility of reviving such relationships.
From a lighter perspective, it has also meant that almost everyone the patient had ever known has reached out to her at least once. The magnitude of love she received in the last 2 years, especially the last 6 months, had been so confounding that she sometimes found herself stunned in a daze when recalling favors of generosity. On heavier days, this haze turned into a paralysis that firmly took hold of her. The daily fluctuations of these overwhelming courtesies drove her mad. During the fleeting moments that she was not meeting the demands of her domestic and maternal duties, she was alone in her rapidly aging body.
This was confusing to her contemporaries, as they were only being loving and supportive. They tried to be there for her as best they could, and were confounded when she did not assign them ways to assist her in these perilous times. All she needed to do was ask for what she wanted, and it would be done!
But do they consider that the patient doesn’t know what she wants? What if she cannot think to ask for more than to be alive and pretend like none of this ever happened? Surely, no one could offer this? Could they rewind time to the beginning of the metastatic movement?
Could they hand her the old life back?
And what if her wildest dreams are unattainable? A national interest in preserving native ecosystems? A better healthcare system? A new roof, driveway, foundation, and 30 windows? A lasting friendship with the birds surrounding her home?
She boards the coach with a one-way ticket to Cancerland. Never in the remainder of her little life will she ever not have cancer, or at least not until a cure is found. Stage 4 is a living purgatory, time measured by scans and test results. Will her body gather strength, or is this downward spiral the only way out?
No, she will gather strength but it will require an adjustment period. A strange passage through time in which she appears to herself to be but a shell of who she once was. Colorless in pursuit, the silhouette of her old life shadows the impending doom until the next scan.
The Shadow Days are here.
Kathlyn Ramsey Moore 