Major Life Decisions
After my daughter was born, as I laid in a hospital bed recovering from an unexpected C-section for an infant determined to remain breech, I found myself thinking of the choices that led to this moment and how the outcomes of those choices were somewhere far in the distance. I could imagine what would happen to my life, to my partner's, and to hers, but prediction is rarely what actually happens. The future was fuzzy, but maybe it was because I was in pain, as you tend to be when someone guts you like a fish. And yet, I had this tiny newborn, a little over six pounds, with a head full of black hair and the slate blue eyes. In reaction to the birth of a child, the hospital responded with paperwork and pamphlets on so many things that I now can't recall. I poured through them as my swaddled daughter slept in a clear bassinet.
One of the pamphlets, which quickly became my favorite, emphasized that you shouldn't make make major life decisions after the birth of a child. No major life decisions, the pamphlet noted sternly. I was supposed to stall these life decisions until I had healed from surgery (at least six weeks, but actually much longer) and was able to sleep again (which didn't happen for nine months). I point out this phrase "no major life decisions" to Chris, and it, unexpectedly, became a bit like a mantra to us. When life came at us fast, we would look at each other and say, "No major life decisions," to convince ourselves to wait a moment and get our bearings. When one of us--who am I kidding?--when I became overwhelmed by a move, the birth of another kid, a major career transition, a kid's illness, a new job, a kid's diagnosis of a long-term disorder, or any of the other things in our lives, no major life decisions gave me permission to pause, consider, and reflect before acting.
Lately, I find myself saying "no major life decisions" because I'm not sure what other words I have and the words I do have I shouldn't subject you to. Something's happened to someone I love. This statement, despite its vagueness, threatens to cleave me in two. Something's happened to someone I love. But, I know what the something is, it's cancer. Cancer has happened to someone I love. Unexpectedly. (Is cancer ever really expected? No.) And the words that doctors utter are "lesions" and "tumors" paired with "lungs" and "brain." The doctor's actions are even more disconcerting as is the recommended treatment of radiation and chemo. There are other words like non-small cell cancer, which have all the meaning in the world to an oncologist, but don't make any sense to me. The doctors say not to Google. I'm trying not to.
The words that the doctors use seem to bounce off of me. The future becomes fuzzy again, and my brain can't process the words or the implications or what it all really means for my family. Except when I'm alone and realize the choking sound I hear is my own sobs, that the wetness on my cheeks is from my tears, and that life as I understand it was not as it really was. It probably hasn't been for awhile, but now, there's a diagnosis. And I don't know what to do.
As we waited on the official diagnosis of my loved one, I told Chris that I wanted to cut my hair, which I've been painstakingly growing out since August. "I want to shave my head," I say with a glint of tears in my eyes, "I want to shave all my hair off."
"Don't shave your head," he responds with compassion that makes me want to scream.
"Maybe I'll quit my job instead," I respond. I like my job. There's no reason to quit, but it feels right to say it aloud anyway.
"No major life decisions," he says.
"No major life decisions," I repeat quietly.
I know I should listen. But, I don't want to. I shouldn't be making big decisions now in the storm of my anguish and fury. Yet, I want to. I want to burn things to the ground until all that remains is ash and char. I want to smash things just to hear them break and let them cut my skin. I want to pick at the edges of the world until it's frayed and tattered and torn around me. I want to rend and destroy because I don't know what else to do. Maybe loud, earth-shattering destruction will overshadows the tears and grief that overwhelm me when I let my mind wander to cancer, inevitability, and terminal illness.
But, I also want to hide, where no one can find me. If no one can find me, then they can't deliver bad news. If they can't deliver it, then maybe the bad news doesn't exist. If only I could hide, then I'm convinced that reality would be less real.
No major life decisions, I say to myself again and again, as I watch my parents make major life decisions and feel helpless.