Life really isn't fair

It’s a strange day.   That last day before I “go all Glo-stick” again.  That’s what I call it - the radiation.  Because if I didn’t poke fun at it, I would never smile at all - ever.   Cancer can be all-consuming, the “what ifs”, the “whys”, the “it’s not fairs.” 

But it’s not fair.  It’s not fair that I have to put something into my body to help it, but that same something, if not kept at a careful distance, could harm the very ones I love the most- my kids.

So, it’s a strange day.  It’s a day of knowing that tomorrow, I will dutifully go to the hospital and let the white coats there unlock a little pill from what looks like a series of jars made of the same stuff of armored cars or bomb shelters, and I will swallow the crazy thing - not because I want to, not because I have to, but because I should - for my kids.

And yet, once I do swallow it, I am kept from the very children who motivate me to take it in the first place.   For, once I begin to “glo”, I can no longer hug my kids.  The radiation could harm them.   So, it’s a crazy contradiction on the way to a very long couple of days of not knowing.  It could either be two days of no hugs, or two weeks, but only time, and yet another yearly scan at the hospital will tell.

What am I supposed to do with that last, strange day - the day before?   It’s not like I can hug my kids all day long, squishing their little heads like soft melons, soaking in all the sweet juice as though it will forever quench my thirst.   For even as I hug them, play with them, kiss their cheeks, hug them some more, I feel the scratchiness in my throat.  It’s already getting dry.   By tomorrow morning, I’ll be completely parched.

For how can a mother ever drink in enough hugs to last - a day, two days, two weeks, a lifetime?

Every moment, our children are growing.  Every moment, they are slipping away.   We only get so many “little” kid hugs, the ones that are given with such pure, uncomplicated joy.  The kind where arms are thrown around you with reckless abandon, simply because you are “Mommy” or “Mama” or “Mom.”  The hugs that are so full of love that it fills the air between you and you are one, both breathing the same fullness of emotion that is completely untouched by time.  For in those moments, you forget that they are slipping away.  You just reach out, emptying yourself into the moment, letting their unconditional love fill you until you nearly spill over.

But for me, once a year, those moments cease.   I can not empty myself into the moment, for I’m afraid that I may remain empty.   The “What ifs” come back - first timid, then aggressive, then mean, then with  outright heinous cruelty.    What if he forgets to hug me goodbye before school - before my trip to the hospital tomorrow?   What if the little one, trusting that I always come back, doesn’t understand the significance of hugging me extra tight that last time before I leave?   What if when I come back, she doesn’t understand that now she can’t hug me, and it makes her sad?  What if a horrible tragedy strikes and this is the last time I get to hug any of them, ever?   Round and round those thoughts could go and more like a little kid than a 40 year old woman, I want to stomp my foot and scream, “It’s not fair!”

It’s not fair, God, that I have to go through all this.   The physical part is a nuisance, an unpleasant pest that pops up from time to time, buzzing around, ready to bite if I don’t keep swatting it away.  But the emotional part is worse.  It’s always there, a heavy, cumbersome clock on my back, weighing me down and deafening my ears with it’s loud bells tolling away the hours of my kids’ childhoods.   It’s a burden, too heavy to carry, but one that I’m unable to discard.  Their whole childhoods will be like this - me never completely able to relax because I’m on the lookout for that buzzing insect again - the one whose bite could take me down, permanently.  Or, at the very least, my neck tensed, ears pricked for the sound of the bells tolling - that moment that says, once again my time with them is interrupted.   Interrupted by days without hugs, nights of restless sleep, haunted thoughts.

It’s not fair.   I just want to hug my children.  Just hug them.  I don’t want to think about what it means to hug them, what a privilege it is to hug them, how much longer I’ll be able to hug them.

For as a mother, it’s all too soon that they “outgrow” our hugs anyway. 

It’s not fair.