When finding out the cancer is incurable, there is an amazing shift in thinking. The emotion is a little akin to realizing this is the last day of summer vacation. I want to savor each moment, yet yearn for more time. I want to treasure the present without dreading what's to come.
My best friend asked me whether having cancer changes how I look at things. And my answer was that yes, in fact it colors everything I do. I wake up in the morning and my first thought is--I have cancer. My last thought as I close my eyes is: I have cancer.
Living in "exit mode" is buying the 400 pack of dryer sheets at Sam's and wondering if I'll live to see the bottom. I don't buy shoes because, will I ever have the chance to wear them out? Am I worth spending money on clothes?
This summer I have thrown out about 30 garbage bags of "memorabilia" that I, at one time, would never have dreamt parting with. But will I really sit in a rocker in the nursing home and re-read my college notes, or get warm fuzzies from reading my 4-H record book, or looking at letters from the friend that moved away in 6th grade?
I donated about 20 bags of "stuff" to good will. Granted, I probably could have made good bucks at a garage sale, but my time budget is probably more strapped than my dollar budget.
Living in "exit mode" means that I make sure my conversations end with a kind word. It might be one of the last. Living in "exit mode" means that Jesus is a better friend than ever before, and that I now understand that heaven is only a thin veil away.
I was running at full bore, with a savings account bulging with time, and now I'm slowly going bankrupt, and I watch my spending of minutes much more carefully.
I savor the sunsets and the birds. And I don't say anything when my husband puts his hand below my nose to see if I'm breathing, or over my heart to check its beats while he thinks I'm asleep.
I choose not to let "exit mode" be riddled with regrets of "if only's" and "no fairs," and I hope for the future, but don't bet on it.
I cashed in my meager investments. They say you need to be in them for the long term. (I think that was wise).
I pray for my children--a lot, and when I laugh, cry, or just talk to them, I wonder about what they'll remember.
In my "exit mode" I think that having a bucket list is a little selfish, and I wish Randy Pausch would have talked about Jesus.
But at the same time, I pray for a future. The ovaries that have led me to this dismal point in my life are the very things that gave me the best blessings of it as well.
We talk about exit mode at work. It can also be a good thing. When you're in exit mode on Friday, and ready to wrap it up and you realize it's only Thursday. It's wierd to come back the next day. In this walk, I kinda wish I knew what day of the week it was.
As we, with cancer, dwell in various levels of exit mode, we understand one another more than anyone else can. We know what it means to wonder "when," "how," and "what's most important?"
When I leave work at night there's a long dark hallway and that EXIT sign glows at the end. As I walk, it's hard to see if it's getting much closer, even though I know it is. But I can't let that glowing exit sign keep me from getting the important jobs done while I can.
I go for blood tests on Wednesday. I haven't had chemo in 8 weeks and I feel mentally brilliant and energized, and "normal." I'm wearing regular shoes and I can walk for hours. It's wonderful. But a little number changes everything. Isn't this a strange journey, and although I'm richer for it, the price is high.
CarolAnn



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