And So It Begins...

I am drowning in information, and yet I have none.
Suddenly phrases like, "you're going to miss me when I'm gone" - even to a dog- seem like goodbyes.
Hair cuts seem ominous, as if a sacrifice ill placed or futile.
Smiles through face masks seem both immeasurably incomplete, and destined to be one of the surest signs that change is in the air.
Future seems both immeasurably impossible to reach, and yet impossibly near- a breath away, a fingertip.

She tells me she's been Visited. That she's witnessed the truth. She knows for sure, though the doctors haven't confirmed it. She says she feels it- that this is what's to come. I can see the truth in her words- in her belief- written deep within her. It's not forfeit.
That's what hurts the most. She hasn't given up. She's accepted.

Things begin to make sense:
-all of the life that's been/being brought into the world. Tonya's baby. Ashley's. Brandy's pregnancy and Gavin's sudden readiness to have a child of his own (I wonder if he felt suddenly that time was running out, or if he just came to have the urge to create something). Life to negate the death.
-the renewed sense of purpose I felt not a month ago. My determination to live, no matter the cost. Was this preparation? A boost to balance out Mom and what's coming?
-the sudden sensation of being utterly heartbroken not two weeks ago. I didn't know then why. Now I do.
-The completely inspirational blog Javen wrote, developing the suggestion that I write whenever I need to. All I've done is just that- write.
-the impossible realization a month ago that things will be changing. I didn't know then what it would be.
-the in depth discussion about the purpose of life, and how it is impossible to not complete it.

We say we'll go to the beach, watch seraph make an ass out of himself on the shoreline. We say we'll play Final Fantasy together- I've always wanted her to watch. We say we'll have water balloon fights.

I take the plans, I help make them, yet I know. Each one that we complete will be another notch in time that has passed, and the time left to make it count.

She tells me she wants me to let go of her. She wants me to let go- to really feel and to release my emotions, to break down and let it all out.

Words like 'arrangements' suddenly are guilty by association. They no longer bring to mind a bouquet, but rather the foreboding of a passing growing near.

Cigarettes hold no sway over her. She no longer feels the need to smoke, though she's done so since she was 8.

Sodas have become a drink of the past. Suddenly the water pitcher must be refilled every two hours.

The house must be cleaned, calls have to be made. I tell her her dreams- her spiritual belief that she has cancer- don't hold any sway over me, that I need scientific proof. She smiles through her face mask, her eyes shining at my choice of words- far more abrupt, callous, rude, and cold than the way they were just worded- and I can see that she's pleased with the way I responded- the way I would have responded had she NOT had cancer. She says we'll have them soon. I reiterate that I'll have nothing to do with this planning of hers until I know for sure.

But deep down don't I already know?

When the temperature first started rising before doctors became the only source of information- the word 'cancer' entered my thoughts, unbidden and unwelcomed. It was squashed away immediately. Paranoia was the culprit, I told myself. Do I still believe my first assumption?
The doctors are 99% sure it's cancer- lymphoma- but they won't be 100% until monday or tuesday when the tests are back.
Hope and rationality argue that this 1% is enough to change the stars, to wipe the slate clean and continue life like normal. It's enough to allay the biggest of fears and reinforce passion for life. It's enough to make her well again, and logic clings to that 1% as if it were oxygen itself.
But a place deep within is unsettled. Instinct- not intuition, though the difference between the two is slim and hardly distinguishable at all- says she's dying. Lymphoma fell from her lips over the phone recevier like a pebble within a well. Small, but ever loud and echoing across my soul. It rang true as day, an affirmative if I've ever heard one. It resonated with honesty somewhere beyond the physical and mental confines of myself in a place not even religion has ever touched- where only love and joy, but mostly, pain have dared to manifest within.

Logic, science, reason. They dictate denial and refusal. They will not be denied their ounce of lenience, and within that ounce lies a handful of other explanations for her decline in health.
Spirit, soul, heart. They whisper gently that this could be, this must be, this is.

But is that doubt and fear? I can't tell. I rely so often on just my logic that I can't tell the difference. It's stifling. Air is harder to breathe now, because I feel the need to breathe for both of us.

I'm afraid to say it even now. I'm afraid to say deep down within that I think I believe she has cancer. I can't say it out loud. My mouth is ill equipped to utter something so horrible. My brain barely refuses to register it as a coherent thought, and even now it's a struggle to type it into a blog.
It's not even fear that I'm right. I'm selfish enough at this particular moment to not want to admit it for the simple that if I'm wrong- if all of this emotional and mental turmoil- is for nothing, than I'll have made an ass out of myself.
No one will fault me for it but myself. I know that. But I'm afraid of emotions. They fail me in the end. Everything I've ever written, spoke, or done that has been guided by the heart has proved wrong for me. If this is wrong too, what will that do to what little faith in my emotions that I currently have?
And how can I sit here and think such a thing after a talk like that, during a moment like this?

I want to rebel, to fight and rail against this entire situation. I want to run and be irrational and cruel. I want to be anywhere but here, in this moment, at this time.
I want to have sex with strangers. My self-esteem is too low to allow it, and in the end it would only lower it further.
I want to kill myself. It's too selfish, and when Mom dies, who will take care of Seraph?
I want to kill someone. Moral refuses.
I want to cry. Logic refuses to allow many tears, and only in moderation.
I want to scream. Self control refuses.
I want to leave, to never look back. Pride won't allow it.

Strength. What does that mean? A squaring of the shoulders, deep breaths, good eye contact, a steady heart rate, the determination to remain standing in the face of destruction, of pandemonium.
I can do these things. This is what I'm made of. And for her, I can do it without very much effort at all. I can stand my ground, I can push her when she needs it and hold her up when she feels like giving up. I can do all of these things.

But my own selfish disdain fights the need to do so, using desire as its weapon.
What do you do when two sides of yourself wage war against the other?
Want and Need.
Need should win, shouldn't it?
Perhaps not. Not if the weapon Want wields is bigger, is better. Not if Want is fueled by a raging fierceness and devotion to the sole purpose of just letting go.

Let go.
But I shouldn't.
I can let go of her. But I can't let go of my strength, and this is what is most important. She'll need it.
She'll need my strength, and not just to help nudge her along. She'll need its presence to be released from this life, because without it she won't be in peace. She'll feel the need to stay and care for me, if only as a ghost or as energy- whatever a spirit consists of and contains.
She deserves Heaven, if there is one. This I'm sure of.

But even while I know I shouldn't let go of this I shouldn't give up and just let life sweep me away and carry me through- I can't help but feel like it.

We all know in the end I'll swallow this. I'll swallow it whole, I'll bite the bullet, and I'll let it fill up within me.
How many times have I done this?
My life could be worse, I know. Someone's story is always worse- more tragic.
But for my own particular limitations, I find myself being stretched too thin. Too much. It's getting hard to manage.

Still, despite all of this, I've managed to remain somewhat positive. Somewhat. Not much. But enough to keep me relatively steady. I haven't broken down completely yet, though I fear what I'll be like upon hearing the test results.

She casts me a look on her way to her bedroom, one saying goodbye, just in case, though she doesn't think she needs to say it yet.
It's a small one, but it's unmistakable. I fear there will be hundreds of these. Thousands.

Lights blur together, the earth quaking beneath trembling limbs. Tears tremble behind sleep-deprived eyes, the lids too dry and shrunk to allow them room to squeeze between and out. A chin wobbles between lips that have been complained about before- too thin, she says, though they seem too large at the present moment, too noticeable as they quiver over her teeth. A tongue is mauled within that mouth- shredded between incisors and cuspids. Hands clench to fists- rough, shredded, bitten nail edges sinking into palms.
Time is abruptly no longer infinite. It's short, no longer a judge of distance but a measure of life instead, and what follows afterward.
Lingering glances- a millisecond longer than ever needed- behind eyes, beginning to cloud with rapid aging, fall upon things that, up until this moment, went unstudied. She views with new light, though the darkness of a caged, raging fear swipes at the confines of her inner-self. These glances- they penetrate, and I'm left with the urge to make myself seem as beautiful as possible, as unblemished by the cruelties of the world as I can, as strong as I will ever be capable of being. I try to show her the overwhelming pride, try to force its gleam into my eyes and hope she takes some notice. "I love you." Either her gaze or her lips say it upon every parting, whether it be for a brief trip to the bathroom or for the evening of sleep she's about to endure. Does she feel the need to stay awake? Does she tremble at the thought of losing a second of time to unconscious twilight? Can she feel the virus spreading, taking its hold on her? I try to find the signs written in the familiar wrinkles along her forehead, in the curve of her jaw, in the tension around her lips, though I find none. I see worry instead, though for me, and I realize some time over the course of the last twenty four hours she's somehow managed to find peace. She's accepted her fate, though she mourns the loss she'll be dealt upon passing. She mourns my life, not her own.

And so it begins...