It's strange how the death of a relationship mimics the impending death of a disease. Early on, my mother and I observed the link, the sameness in our hurt. She said, "Sometimes I look in the mirror and think, 'Who are you?' Sometimes you wonder if you'll ever see yourself there again." I understand perfectly. I deluded myself thinking that it was the backdrop that was off, the backdrop that colored everything a shade of wrong. It was an easy assumption to make. I would spend long minutes staring at my reflection, never seeing myself at all. Only death, desertion, loneliness.

I wasn't seeing myself because I wasn't looking at myself. I say all the time that it isn't what happens to you that makes a good life, but how you react to what happens to you. Unfortunately, all of my quaint little philosophies crawled to an unreachable shelf in the beginning, there. They gave me my space, allowed me free range to go slightly mad with the process. All suffering is not bad. People tiptoe around pain, trying to avoid it at all cost. They do themselves a grave injustice, for only from the greatest misery can be born the greatest joy.



It was as though I slept for six weeks straight after Miles skipped town. I could not bear the nourishment of food or the refreshment of water. I lived in a vacuum of disillusionment, and I stared at blank walls, daring them to cave in around me. I am certain that my loved ones looked upon my pathetic form and mourned, "She isn't strong enough to survive this." Strength is a funny concept we humans have. With hundreds of contrasting definitions on its figurative page, I think it's safe to say that strength is something that you have to shape to fit your own heart, and only then can you wield it.

It wasn't my husband's leaving that hurt so deeply—but rather, my friend's betrayal...and that will always ache. But, I can accept this—I can accept that not all memories have to pass a rigorous assessment of goodness and warmth to be inducted into the banks of my recollection. But mostly, I can accept that misery really is as valuable to me as joy. I need them together, or both depreciate. I am stronger for it. I am stronger for letting the wretchedness take me to the edge...because it wasn't until I made it there that I realized that I didn't want to jump.

And all at once my world was saturated with brilliant hues again. Life is really what you make of it. This year, I am entering the Christmastime festivities with a very different outlook than I had last year.

It was in the second week of December, 2004, that the oncologist told Mom that if they didn't find an effective treatment, her prognosis was only two years. Miles spent the holiday in Colorado with his family, an event which, sadly, I missed because I felt an indescribable certainty that I needed to be with my mother last Christmas. It was a glum month, a glum holiday. Basically, it sucked. There was this heavy cloud of sorrow hanging over us...and even smiles seemed strained. "Is this our last Christmas together?" Every action, every word, was laced with the silent question. It hung upon the humidity of the emotion-clogged air and threatened to suffocate.

This year—my God—this year, we are on borrowed time with Mom. "Three months" came due at the end of August...we are at the end of December. Miles is no longer in my life—leastwise not in the same context. Yet, this year, the rapture pours over, and my heart has let flood my body with it. My eighth grade English teacher always told us that we weren't human beings, but rather, human becomings. I pray that I never stop becoming. I looked in the mirror a few weeks ago...and I saw an old friend: myself.