Terrified of More But Filled with Sunshine

I started writing this a couple of days ago but I didn't want to post it yet because it didn't feel complete.  Now I know why.  It was missing the sunflower part.  So I've added to it.  Now it's ready.

Today I dropped my mom off at the airport for the last time (in the foreseeable future) and I felt a bit sad and lonely. When I got home, I sat down in my living room and looked around.  We have little twinkle lights on our mantle with a Buddha surrounded by rocks from Westport I collected with my mom.  There are pussy willow lights from my new "in-laws" and paintings from Alaska and Ecuador from close friends. There are engagement cards from our community hanging from purple yarn above our fireplace.  There is a beautiful drawing celebrating our engagement and some of our favorite inspirational books sitting on our bookshelf.  Then, there is this amazing jar sitting on top of that bookshelf.  It's my "Jar of Sunshine".  Six of my closest friends put together this amazing jar that I received the night before my last treatment filled with with 365 pieces of sunshine - cards, little gifts, pictures, quotes from my favorite books and movies, inspirational quotes, gift cards, and love.  Every day in 2016, they guaranteed that I would feel love in a tangible way.  I've rarely needed to feel love or sunshine in a tangible way, like on a piece of paper or in an actual picture. But today I needed it.  I needed to know that even as all these transitions happen and my life starts moving towards a "new normal"-I have my people.  I will always have my people.  Then, my afternoon was filled with three phone calls from dear friends.  I felt so strange about writing the post below because I felt like it wasn't fully me, it didn't have my hopeful heart in it.  I am not always joyous or grateful or happy but my heart usually has hope that better days are ahead.  And they are.  Today proved it.  So even though I'm terrified for what is to come, today I am filled with sunshine. Also, watch this.  This is what I'm talking about when I think of my people.

Post from earlier this week: I've been terrified to write since I finished my last treatment because so much has been stirring in me since then.  I wasn't sure what would surface.  So much processing has started.  It feels like so many endings and beginnings have come and gone in just a week.  I made it through my last low period, last oral thrush mouth wash, last nerve pains (hopefully), last prednisone mania episodes, and so on.  But I've also had my first flashbacks, worries about returning to work, and post-treatment anxiety.

I haven't ever thought much about trauma in relation to my life.  I've thought about it in respect to my students' lives and the lives of countless people around the world, but never my own.  Now it feels present in my life.  I feel like pieces of myself were taken from me with my cancer diagnosis and treatment.  Pieces relating to my security, understanding of the world, anxiety, gratitude, health, and hope.  These missing pieces have left me with a new, fresh lens for which I am grateful.  However, I still miss the way I used to be able to view and navigate the world.  I miss not worrying about finances or life expectancy all the time.  I miss not worrying about every pain in my body.  I look back on my former self and feel envious of the carefree life she lived. I don't know if I appreciated it enough back then, although I guess it doesn't matter now.

I'm nervous about going out into the world as this "new" Anna.  A person who needs to be more conscious of the money she spends on chai tea, cards, and books and more cognizant of whether the food she buys and eats is organic and more aware of the chemicals used around her and more gentle with herself when concentrating is hard and more mindful of having healthy sleep and exercise habits and more vigilant about germs and just more.  It sounds exhausting.  All of this more.  My treatment bubble gave me time to just be.  To wake up and plan my day based on how I was feeling.  It's almost over though.  Pretty soon, I'll feel pretty good., which is wonderful, don't get me wrong. I'll be fatigued, have low energy, trouble concentrating, and anxiety.  But I will be able to plan out my days in advance and schedule dinners, yoga, and activities with friends knowing that it is unlikely an episode of mania, or mouth sores, or nausea will ruin it.     Weirdly, it feels terrifying to have that freedom.  To no longer have to live in the moment or the day.  To think beyond the next 3 or 21 days.  Sometimes life's gifts are terrifying.