I had every intention to share something with you yesterday…but the day slipped away from me. The hinges on my door seemed to melt away, information and people spilling into my hospital room at a steady rate. There’s always so much to consider. So many decisions to make.
Yesterday was hard.
I thought it would be easy—the treatment protocol only called for steroids yesterday—but the medication makes my chest rumble with a grizzly bear’s impatience. It makes me feel like I am becoming rough, prickly, like the outside of a pineapple. It’s the opposite of grace and gratitude, of everything that I hope to be in this life.
And maybe that’s the hardest part about cancer, Dear Readers—it’s not the drugs, or the fact that your body is trying to actively give up on you—it’s that cancer changes you. It steals whatever hope you had in youthful invincibility. It transforms your outer packaging, taking hair, fitness, any sense of self-worth and beauty you may have had. And, then, it tries to take your personality.
I could cry—whole rivers, whole lakes, maybe even an ocean. I walk this fine line between grace and hysteria, teetering over the edge from time to time. I sincerely wonder where I will find the strength to fight this, to outlive this disease this time.
I realized that I can’t.
I can’t survive this—not without help.
I guess I can blame the chemo on making me a little sluggish on the epiphany-front, but that is the revelation that I had last night: that I can’t do this alone. I don’t have the strength, Dear Readers. My reserves were depleted the first time I faced this cancer…but it’s okay…because strength has more than one source. There is a vast reservoir of strength and love already out there, already in existence, already fully accessible. You can call it the Universe, The Divine, God—call it whatever feels good to you—but for me, it’s God, and He has the strength necessary to carry me through this storm.
You should know, Dear Readers, that you, too, have been spoon-feeding me strength.
Strength comes to me in your phone calls, messages, and pictures—always at just the right moment when I feel myself slipping. These daily doses of laughter, of hope, are as important as air, as steroids, as chemotherapy. Please keep them coming.
Because I’m not strong.
Maybe I never was.
But, it’s okay, because the strength that will see me through this isn’t coming from some personal, finite supply. It’s coming from God. And it’s coming from you.
With Love, Laura