What does it mean when one says: you put me in stitches? This is a reference used when you laugh so hard you almost pee your pants. So does it mean you laughed so hard that you fell off your chair and broke into pieces like Humpty Dumpty? And, are you able to laugh at life, putting yourself into stitches? Once you have laughed at your life so hard and put yourself in stitches, can you use stitches to help all the king's horses and all the king's men put you back together again?
The profound burden of my life smacked me in the face so hard that I fell off my wall today. I was running this morning and Madonna's American Dream played (great running song.) Does one still get to live the American Dream after a cancer diagnoses? What does that look like? Sure, I still want to look hot in my skinny jeans and be able to afford a chia latte at a local boutique coffee house on Main Street. Yep, I love my white painted fence around my back yard and the two kids and a half sandwich which is running around it. I am a suburban snob with a teaching degree I am not currently using (well, not in a school anyway.) And, I am in a book club. I have the American Dream.
That dream doesn't include dying, does it? I had to think about dying today. Yep. I met with Dr. Borges, young women's breast oncologist at University Hospital. She knows her stuff. She knows the stats. And, as she hugged me for full minute and called me "hon," I felt her umbrella of burden. We chatted about recurrence and why we chose the course of action we took last year. It began to rain. The reality is that I am not going to be an old lady sitting on my front porch in a rocking chair with 12 cats. The reality is that I am going to get sick again. We are waiting, we are watching, and we will try to move into our defenses as quickly as possible. My job is to take care of this body the best I possibly can and push through difficulties with Lymphadema and surgery. I know this. I fight thinking about it. But, it is my umbrella I carry no matter what the weather.
I am living the American Dream as I fold up my pants that are now too big (Yeah, I am loosing some chemo-weight and have "big pants" again. And, it is my American Dream that I was able to afford some new jeans when I gained chemo-weight.) I fold them and decide I will put them away on a top shelf in the closet instead of donating them. I might need them. I look really hot in my skinny jeans, drive a Prius, live in a four bedroom home, run three miles two times a week, and go to Birkum Yoga three days a week. I am the American Dream. I just have cancer. And, I can't seem to dream that away. Isn't it ironic? So much so I laugh so hard I put myself into stitches.
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