“I just don’t like that sound. That’s what scares me in the night,” he told me as he and I were huddled together under his covers.
“You know that’s just the air conditioner kicking on, right?”
“Oh… no I didn’t know that. But don’t you get scared?”
“Not from that. Because I know what it is. And I know it isn’t scary.”
…
He’d asked me after I’d gotten up from laying next to the Middlest, after he and daddy had just closed the Hobbit for the night, and the bedside lamps had clicked off.
“Mom will you lay with me?”
“Sure… for a bit…” I said sort of dragging my feet. I was tired, but I reminded myself, you first, kid. As long as he was asking, I wouldn’t dare turn it down. Because there may come a day soon when he stops asking, right?
…
“What scares you mom?” he asked, his big brown eyes somehow visible by the glow of the nightlight.
“Well. Remember the day we told you I had cancer? That scared me.”
“That scared me, too. Because I thought you were going to die.” he said, using a high-pitched voice he finds humorous these days.
“You did? You didn’t seem scared,” I told him remembering the moment vividly.
“I didn’t want you to get scared.”
Oh my heart.
I paused.
“Well, can I tell you something? I was scared I was going to die.”
“I was, too. But now you’re not, right?” he asked.
“Absolutely. I am not scared at all of dying from cancer right now, babe.”
“Me neither.”
“I think the funny thing is, you were scared because you didn’t know what cancer was or could do. And I was scared because I did know.”
…
And I was so happy I had said yes to that lay time. To those bedtime snuggles. To that conversation.
…
There’s this thing about cancer. I think I now know why it’s not spelled cantser. Because everyone I know who has had cancer enter their body has said, I can, throughout their battle. I can do the chemo. I can lose my hair. Even though it all sucks, I can do it because I don’t see any other way to do it.
I like to hope that as my kids see me post-cancer, they see me saying I can more. I can lay for a bit. I can read you seventeen books in a row. I can help you set up your lemonade stand for the fourth week straight. I can.
Because cancer has gotten a year of my life. It can’t have all the others. It can’t have all my moments. It can’t have all my energy. It can’t have me. Because I can clean and love and mother and be silly and cook and laugh and dance and drink hot coffee. I can do so much more now than I ever knew before. Yesterday, I ran five miles in preparation for an upcoming run. Before my cancer diagnosis, I happen to know that I would have stopped when I was tired at 2.5 miles. Instead, yesterday, I said, I can. And I will. And I just kept going. Because I absolutely can. And so can you. We all have the power to adjust our sails when the winds get sideways. We all have the capacity to endure when the going gets tough. We all have the ability to keep going when we have an actual chance of survival. Sometimes, we just default to the word can’t. Because can’t is the easier road. The more comfortable one.
It’s hard. Life is. At times. For every single person. Truly. I believe that with all my heart. I believe that from the top of head to the tips of my toes. Life can feel challenging. It can feel resistant. It can feel can’t-ish. Right?
But now, I know… when I lay beside them at night that with every fiber of my being, my dream is that when they lay next to their children, they can talk about that thing called cancer that is no longer even a thing. That thing that grandma had and that killed hundreds of thousands every year. That thing that tried to take grandma and age 34 and she said, Listen here… Just so you know, you can’t, sir.
…
Cancer. It’s scary. It’s deadly. It takes far too many. And I am just happy to be here to even utter those words. To lay next to my son and tell him that I really am not scared right now. And to be able to have our biggest concern be the sound of an air conditioner kicking on.
…
“Well, goodnight, mommy.” he giggled.
“Goodnight, love,” I replied. “Are we good on the air conditioner.”
“Yeah. Now that I know that’s what it is, I don’t think I’ll be scared. Instead, I’ll just tell it, ‘you can’t scare me.”
“Brilliant child you are.” I said as I leaned in to kiss his cheek.
“I get it from dad,” he giggled.
And I giggled right back.
You can’t scare me, I thought in my mind as I exited the room. Not right now, you cantser. Because I can fight. I can be strong. And for those brilliant littles and my brilliant big, I can keep going. As long as life will let me.
