Not sure who has been teaching my daughter about various plagues, but she 

finds the subject endlessly fascinating. 

Anna:  Mummy, I’m glad people don’t die from Black Plague, or Husha Husha anymore.

Me:  I’m glad too, honey.

Anna:  I’m glad people don’t die from… 

(a wide-eyed, horrified stare fills her eyes)

Anna:  Mummy, people don’t die of cancer, do they?

(long pause as I force my voice to respond without trembling)

Me:  Yes, darling, sometimes people DO die from cancer.

(another long pause, punctuated by a couple of gulps.)

Anna:  Whew…I’m sure glad YOU didn’t die, Mummy.  You are very special to me

Whew, I’m glad I didn’t die, too.  And I’m glad that my strength is returning, and that I feel real again.  I was walking along the other day, the sun was shining and I felt happy.  I almost stopped dead in my tracks as this thought flitted through my head: “I feel well…I AM well!”

It’s much better now, but a few weeks ago, I was finding the return to health and wellness quite trying.  I felt a bit like an interloper, an impostor – like I was elbowing my way into a world where I had no place.  It reminded me a little of returning home after Lois died and after my nana died.  I remember going out in public and being sort of appalled that life for others had gone on while mine had been devastated.  I heard people laughing and talking, and felt I couldn’t join in – as if I had lost the gifts of laughter, and sharing.  I felt that I had been somewhere that others had not been, and therefore they couldn’t understand my heart.  

I felt like Luna Lovegood.  Because she had experienced death, she could see the thestrals when no one else could.

It’s not that no one but me has ever seen death or sorrow, it’s just that mine was recent.  Mine was about Lois…about Nana.  Mine sorrow was my own.

I think we can certainly empathize with others, but rarely can we really enter into some one else’s pain.

And that’s a little how I have felt these last weeks as I have entered back into life.  I have walked through the valley of the shadow of death, and now I am back among the living.  

It is very strange.

And yet, each week has become easier and more more natural and I sometimes forget that I have been sick.  Sometimes.

I went out with friends last night, and had a GREAT time.  We laughed and told stories and laughed more.

But when I got home, I reviewed the conversations we had, and I was sort of horrified by how many times I had talked about my illness.  I haven’t done that for weeks.  For weeks, I have worked, I’ve gone on field trips with my kids, taken them to swim pratice, visited my parents, had dinner with friends, and lived without endlessly talking about my health.

But last night I did.

Yesterday morning some one told me about the death of an acquaintance.  She had died from cancer.

Years ago she had struggled through breast cancer, and had recovered.

But last year the cancer had spread throughout her body.  And then she died.

When I heard the news, I tried to think of her family and friends, but when it came down to it, I could only think of myself.  The tears rose in my eyes, and I had to leave the room.

And cry by myself in the bathroom.

I know that people die from cancer.  But it still gives me the wiggins.

I felt badly for my friend who had told the news.  She had to tell me: I needed to know. It’s more important to know than to be “protected” from “bad” news.  I don’t want to be “protected,” I want to be a participant in life.  But that can be painful, and hard, and I know my friend felt badly. 

And I think that’s why I talked about it last night.

I mostly talked about the funny stuff: the stuff that made me laugh.

But lurking around in the back of my mind was the knowledge that people die from cancer.