A year ago, I was dreading my first "cancerversary" and so relieved to find my feelings surrounding the date did not reach epic proportion (as I feared they would).
It's now been two years since I got "the call." And I've spent even less time thinking about my "cancerversary" this year than I did last year. Turns out December 8th — the day after the day that will live in infamy — still holds no charge for me.
Instead of spending time blogging, I'll be spending the day with my mom, doing Christmasy type things, like decorating the tree. (Well, I'll be decorating the tree. She'll watch. So will my husband. Some things never change — and for that I am grateful.)
Here's my post from December 8th, 2011...
|(Copyright © 2013 The Big C and Me)|
Then yesterday landed. The 70th anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Historic for two reasons: It also happens to be the anniversary of my father's death.
He served in the South Pacific during WWII; so Pearl Harbor Day is a very apropos date for him to have departed this earth. He has been gone four years. It is hard to fathom.
I spent the day with my mother, wrapping Christmas presents. My father loved Christmastime; and so did I (it was a day I could count on him being in a good mood). But more than that, it was the one day a year that my siblings and I were indulged. We were not a family of means, but you would never know it by the present-laden floor beneath the tree on my childhood Christmas mornings.
Wrapping gifts seemed like an appropriate way to honor him and spend time with my mom, who shared a few stories I had never heard before about my Dad. It was a good day. We lit a Yahrzeit candle, a new tradition I find comforting and applicable to all faiths. You can buy them in the grocery store for a dollar. You light them on the eve of a relative's death. They burn for 24 hours. Anytime we walked into the kitchen, there was the candle, a flaming reminder of a wonderful life.
But in the back of my mind yesterday, the thought of what today would bring was looming very large. I knew today was going to feel worse than yesterday. Because today is the one-year anniversary of the day I found out I had cancer. And I was afraid this date would even eclipse my father's death.
That's how it felt yesterday, anyway.
I am happy to report that upon awakening this morning, I found that this day and this date holds no such power over me. I have spend countless minutes (I would rather not add them up into hours) worrying about how December 8, 2011 was going to feel. But Pearl Harbor Day will forever be more important. I don't even have a desire to take a hike to my favorite spot where I go to reflect on things like this. It's weird; it's a complete nonevent.
At least I know now. I won't be weighing myself down with these imaginary, doomsday-like projections in the future. Today is the first of many remarkable anniversaries that I'll be acknowledging as time marches on. Each will probably feel different. But I'm not gonna worry about how it might feel until it gets here.
I'm tired of wasting my time on things that don't deserve my limited energy and laser focus. Things that are hallow. Things that aren't real. Things that don't matter. Things that don't care back.
Gonna flip it around and turn my energy on me. I could use a little of my own precious natural resources.
And that is how I am heading into my next "cancerversary":
Happy Anniversary to me.