Checkpoint

There are checkpoints in a journey like this. Moments when you are asked specifically, “so how are you feeling about this?” An initial symptom. A diagnosis. A procedure. A scan, a test, a result.

Right now, it is going home.

My brother took me out for a beer the other night. We went to Craft, the beer market and bar in Olympic Village that we have both returned to several times throughout the past few months, each with different company, different things to talk about, different perspectives on things. Checkpoints.  As soon as we settled into our seats he said, “so all other things aside, how are you feeling about this?” The end of this leg. Change. Returning.

“Honestly,” I said, “I’m not sure I know.”

I know that it doesn’t feel like I thought it would. Though how can anyone imagine what something like this would feel like? It’s not exactly the most expected of human circumstances – to suddenly be air lifted from your life one morning, to return almost a year later to the same place a completely different person.

And yet, it’s not that unique, either.

I could get into the videos I’ve watched of bombed buildings in the Ukraine, but that’s another blog post.

I think the dominant attitude I’ve had throughout this has been staying present and acknowledging that if a person can come to terms with “what is”, they can be happy and satisfied anywhere. And because that’s what I’ve tried to do for 9.5 months – be as happy and satisfied with what’s in front of me as I possibly can be – going home doesn’t necessarily have its dramatic flavour that it could have otherwise.

And that’s not a bad thing. Except that I’ve always been a drama queen – the writer in me wants to milk this moment in time, this opportunity for drama, as much as possible. There is potential for me to really feel some serious emotion in this one. I can invest, if I choose, in the intensity of going back to our house, our community, our friends and family, and let it sweep me up in theatrical fervour.

And I want to. But there are consequences to that, too.

One, being the passionately intense emotional basket case that I am already at the best of times, this kind of context could potentially level me. I imagine coming home to a crowd of people and collapsing on the ground in an inconsolable, embarrassing pool of tears. Forgivable and understandable maybe, but possibly something I couldn’t recover from.

The other is that if I put all my eggs in this basket, then I take away from the life lesson I have tried to really safeguard throughout this process of change – life is FULL in every moment. You don’t need specific conditions of any kind to be truly happy.

But maybe it is ok to acknowledge that some moments in life just have more depth, more meaning, more meat than others, and that’s something to cherish, too. Maybe it’s ok to freak out about those moments and let them turn you inside out. Why else do we do anything? We want things to look forward to. Some things just feel better than others. It’s ok to be scared of cancer treatment and excited to go home again.

The truth is, Violet’s neutrophils are still low and dropping from radiation, meaning her immunity is a concern. Big parties aren’t even an option for us yet. So that makes it easier to make decisions about how to navigate our return. But I do want to feel this one, and to let everyone know how absolutely fundamental their love has been for every single aspect of this. I want to hug the crap out of everyone I know, and don’t know, that has been our cheering squad and support system. I want everyone to really know the truth in this.

So when we drive into town on Saturday afternoon, and I look at the lake appear on the horizon as we enter the Okanagan, and I fall apart behind the wheel (and try not to drive off the road), I will relish the inevitable drama. I’ll let myself sob. I’ll get Matt to videotape the hysterical mess that I will be as I enter our front door. I’ll sink my teeth into it. Because we only get so many opportunities to fall apart like that. And maybe that’s the good stuff. The checkpoint – one door closing, and another one open to welcome us home.