Every moment was so precious.

       So two days ago, I had to get an echo-cardiogram done on my heart. It's standard procedure to get them every so often when you are on certain kinds of chemo. I walk into the curtained enclosed room and give the standard apology to both women for the torso I'm about to unveil. I lay down on my side on the hospital bed while the two nurses begin prepping for the procedure. One turns down the lights and the other sits at the computer next to the bed prepping the gel they use on your chest to get the images of your heart. They begin by asking me a series of questions that are required to be answered before beginning; and end up discussing the details of my condition that are not required. We talk about the misdiagnosis, the effects of chemo, and Harper. Not long into the details the woman operating the machine asks that we stop the conversation so she can listen to what she is looking at on the screen. I stop talking and close my eyes. I lay there for a few seconds before I start to hear my heartbeat. Laying on the hospital bed on my side, mentally being taken back to the time of doctor appointments where we were able to listen to Harper's heart beating. It immediately takes me back to when Karen and I would go for pregnancy checkups. I just laid there in the dark, thinking about how different things were then, and listening to every beat and feeling the weight that every beat carried along with it. I hated the nerve-wracking feeling that came with waiting for the midwife to find the heartbeat. There was nothing like when they found it and there was a calm that came over all of us. After a few minutes, I then stopped remembering and was back in the present hooked up for an echo-cardiogram-still rooting for same strong heartbeat that we heard with Harper.
         I'm a sucker for vulnerability. Watching Harper lay in bed at night as Karen and I sing her to sleep still is the best, but hardest part of the day for me. She lays there in her footsie pj's, holding her stuffed animal, as she is covered up by a little blanket. She looks up at both of us as we sing her to sleep. Her eyes are tired as she watches us. They are ready to close with ease because of the trust that she looks at us with. The trust that in her crib, with all of the items we and loved ones have surrounded her with things that give her the security that a baby needs to be able to close their eyes and go to sleep.

            Over the last two years I've become an expert at crying. If I'm honest, before Harper and cancer, I probably cried one or two times a year. I realize now how unhealthy that was. Now, well, I don't count anymore, but me crying happens more than Karen shaves her toes (which isn't often...so that's a bad example). So with this expertise in the area I am able to control how I cry. It's not some sloppy affair that would normally accompany a once a year downpour. I was able to lay there on my side, with my eyes closed, and quietly have a moment. It wasn't a moment that required a "there, there" from someone. It was quiet and quick and the nurses didn't even notice. I don't share this for the sake of sharing something dramatic for a blog entry. It was a moment that would've happened whether or not I was with or without cancer...the result of perspective formed over the last couple of years. Maybe it's because of the sound of a heartbeat reminds me of how fragile the life of my daughter is, mine is, or anyone's is...or maybe it's because of the time in my life when we had Harper only to focus on. When her heartbeat was the only one we had to worry about.
         I'm thankful for these moments. I'm thankful that I don't cry just once or twice a year. I never spoke with my father about those sorts of things. I doubt many men do. Like many who die unexpectedly, I'm sure my father was left with a list of things that he wishes he would have said to others prior to his death. Part of why I think cancer has been a blessing is that the threat of death forces you to wrestle with the mental/emotional items that you likely would not if not face to face with it.  It's a real juggling act to make sure that I am doing what I need to do to function each day, while making sure you make the most of your time with those around you. I think that each day everyone struggles with that balance to some degree. They may not feel the urgency that some of us do, but on some level, maybe we all should love our families/friends with a little more urgency. I am blessed enough to have cancer and all the time it can afford me. There's not a minute that I would want to spend apart from this one.

 

  

 "Now the sky could be blue, I don't mind. Without you it's a waste of time."- Chris Martin

With Love,

Brian