I am ashamed to say that I went to the hospital today expecting bad news.

Mom had a scan scheduled at ten this morning, a meeting with her oncologist to discuss the results, and then (depending on the results) a round of chemo. "You should bring a book. Here, take my book. Do you want to go in at the gas station and buy a magazine to read? It'll be a long day..." Mom rambled. I used my time of waiting to think, to reconcile myself to the impending bad news.

Her doctor came into her room with her results and said around a smile, "I think it's about time you had a good scan, don't you?" We're stable, the tumors are stabilizing. The growth hasn't stopped completely...but this is good. This is really, really good.

Mom says she's "guardedly" optimistic...she's always preparing herself for the worst case scenario next time around. I'm not so guarded. I am going to spend all the weeks between the scans feeling grateful, feeling full, feeling blessed. I couldn't have asked for a more wonderful Thanksgiving gift.

The mind is a scary place. We exist in a corridor, dimly lit, and wander aimlessly down the long hall of locked doors—unable to resist trying every knob. We have a desire to know everything there is to know...but such knowledge would be our end. We're simply not meant to just know.

As I walk through life, a lock sounds audibly, and I run down the line searching for what I've paid in experience to learn. I don't always like what I find on the other side when I find that door, but there is a certain comfort in knowing that it will never be locked to me again.

We all exist in this way, though many of you probably (and understandably so) shrink from my brand of metaphorical philosophizing. I call it metaphorisizing. Words are fluff to me unless they paint a picture for me to study as a visual aid.

I've talked about the empty corridors of my dreams before. It refers to those restless nights when I want answers so badly that I can taste them, almost feel them against my outstretched fingertips. I'm not content enough to hang out in one of the rooms I've managed to unlock, to be happy with what I have.

But, when a person wanders in that emptiness for long enough, they find an evil brand of answer. One of my mother's sayings through her ordeal with cancer is, "I'm looking for answers where there are none." My version through my own travails goes, "In the absence of answers, one makes them up." Your most desperate thoughts emerge there in that solitary place, unabated by concerns of your loved ones' reaction. Eventually, the echoing ripples resonate like the voice of reason and you have a sick little falsity to illuminate your days.

In a concert of these, I heard a door creak open late last week. I was on my back, staring up from the basement of existence, and didn't believe it at first, couldn't. There is a strength in needing. I put a voice to a dark thought, and all at once, it became diseased and began to die. Rejection may thunder, but it does not reign. I spent far too many nights convinced that a fire had gone out in my soul, but it burns still.

Firstly, you must know that I came to Miles as a very broken person. I was sick, tired, and emotionally drained. The compasses in my life began to resemble the crowds in the tower of Babel...a rising cacophony that lacked distinguishable sound...and I was lost in my own life.

Miles and I have known each other our entire adult lives, and have been inexplicably close from day one. We existed as close-knit friends for well over three years before we delved deeper into our bond and became a couple. We wanted happiness for each other, we wanted love and joy for each other...always that. So, when I began to struggle, and when I needed escape, shelter, and warmth, Miles not only asked me to take his hand, but demanded it.

October 14th, I returned from the hospital to discover my husband gone. I began bottoming out in my depression last Wednesday, almost three weeks since I last saw my beloved's face. Almost three weeks without communication with the exception of a few clipped emails. I felt the weight of failure—as his friend and as his wife...as a care provider for my mother...as a woman who took the marriage contract very seriously. My chest pained me considerably, and I realized that it was the pain of a broken heart, a broken fairy tale, and a broken life.




Yesterday was All Saints Sunday, did you know that? "Who are the saints?" Pastor would ask after describing the people in his own life. Who are the saints?—I have many. I have my mother, who is my pixie dust...my shimmer of beauty sparkling from the pit of charcoal. I have my aunt, Brenda, who helps me laugh and be merry when the beacon of humor has extinguished. I have my aunt, Debbie, who hugs as though she'll absorb away the pain. I have my many sisters in fitness, who offer undying prayers and support. I have my dear friend, Sarah, who has recently come back into my life after too many years of lost communication. I have Pastor Doug, who keeps my eyes alighted on the most basic love. But, most strikingly: I have Miles, who has supported me during so much, called me back from the ledge so many times. I will never forget that, nor could I.

I think I may just need this moment of separation as much as he does. A sense of duty and responsibility will sometimes pull at a person until they're stretched away from their natural form. I know that Miles and I will always have a connection, that inexplicable bind. I know that we still love each other, in some definition, and probably always will. I know his heart, and while I can't pretend to understand his head, I know that he had to believe that this had to be done for it to be worth the buckets of pain that we now bear in equal shares. We have had beautiful times together, and I can't let my memories be marred by bitterness. Instead, I choose to let them shine in the sun that waits for me tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day after that.

This is a time that I will use to grow stronger than I was before, than I ever have been before...we both will. We get knocked down so that we remember how to get back up, and too much dust has had a chance to settle on the soles of my feet. The devastation has passed, and now it is time to rebuild.

Please wish us both peace and prosperity in whatever may come.

^{from While You Sleeping:}

"You know you work hard, try to provide for the family, and then for one minute everything's good. Everyone's well, everyone's happy. In that one minute, you have peace."

—"Pop...this isn't that minute."

---

I keep waiting for that minute when all is right. I keep wondering when the bad things will stop happening. I keep hoping that it is soon.

We are going to the clinic today, so Mom can get tested for diabetes. Yeah...diabetes atop everything else. Her blood glucose level was through the roof last week. We need it to be a fluke, but something inside tells me that it isn't. So we must hope for diabetes, the lesser of evils an elevated glucose level suggests at this stage. We're hoping for a disease.

But someday, one minute will seem carefree. One minute will lift us away from the weight of the world. I take life slowly now...ever watchful for that minute.