January 19
Dear January Cancer Diagnosis,
I can’t forget you. Can’t. Won’t. Completely unable. You’d think I’d be able to control my own thoughts and feelings. I think I’d be able to control my memories of you. My God, it’s been eleven years this year. But no; I can’t forget you.
There won’t be a day I don’t think about you. Sometimes, those days almost happen. When I almost forget that you’re a part of my life. But not quite. They can’t. Because when I do relax, when I take a breath, when I push you far enough down into the recesses of my mind, it’s like you know, and clearly that angers you. And, predictably, you attempt to revive our otherwise dormant relationship. You come back in my face like a landmine I didn’t know was buried under my step. There aren’t even letters in our alphabet to create an onomatopoeia that does justice to the kind of explosion that blows my mind space to shreds. You leave me covered in flashback shrapnel, bleeding the color of terror and fear. There’s nothing I can do to stop you. I’m always on guard, always at post, waiting for cobwebs that can’t grow. The dark corners must stay lit because you lurk, and I never know when you’re going to wreak havoc again.
For a while, I looked over my shoulder more times than I looked ahead. It still happens from time to time. Those are the worst days. When it feels like I’m right there with you all over again. The purr of a vibrating phone echoes in my memory. My answer is drowning in trepidation, knowing exactly what is on the other end of the line. The response is a quiet voice, staid and apprehensive. The pencil is scratching furiously against the paper. Can’t miss a single detail. Numbness prevails. What’s the mental equivalent of a deer in headlights? Tornados create an organized funnel cloud, and hurricanes have eyes at their centers. But I never had the luxury of ordered thoughts. That day, my mind was the blinding, chaotic tempest of a blizzard. Deafening winds howling and swirling debris. Zero visibility. And the cold. I trembled. Bitter.
I admit, most days I can keep my eyes forward with only occasional glances in the rearview mirror. A quick check just to make sure you’re not visible, and I’m speeding along, well ahead of you. I used to think there would be a day when I could put you entirely to rest. Maybe just pay homage on an anniversary. I’d light a candle, raise a glass, swallow the drink, blow out the flame, and move on. I hold out hope that day will come. Who knows?
But for now, your ghost haunts the asylum you created; my harbor is no longer safe. The weight of your shadow grows heavier from time to time. I carry the predictable load each January. Winter dampness lingers in a fog that muffles the sunshine songs that once played before the 19th. Pre and post: the dividing stain you left on my timeline.
I used to wonder when I’d just get over you. How could I have been so naïve? So stupid? Because here’s the thing: recovery and remission are not synonyms. Not at all. Remission means diminution. Look it up. I did. That’s what it says on page 1673 of my Big English Teacher Dictionary. Diminution. A quieting down. A lowering, as in a light. I wish it would say Cease. Desist. End. Extinguish. But no; your light will never fully extinguish. Diminution doesn’t have finality. It implies there’s still a little something there. And there is. You.
You’re a ghost. A shroud. A cloud. An unwelcome guest loitering in the doorway and who is now part of the party, even though you weren’t invited, and no one want to acknowledge your presence. Well, you’re here, regardless of the fact that I don’t want you. You’ve already made your entrance, caught us utterly off guard, and thrown our party train completely off its rails.
So fine. Come in. I don’t really have a choice anymore, do I? Just please, stay in the corner. Observe. Be silent. There’s much reveling to do, and I’d prefer you not interrupt me any more than you already have.
