No Choice in this Matter
December is obvious to me – I don’t wish anyone to die during
the holidays.
Okay, okay … I realize that this is faulty thinking. People die when their times comes
around. I have this theme throughout my
Tales of Resilience, especially in Fine, Just Fine which will release
next year.
From Fine, Just Fine, coming in 2022:
I need to trust him. He is a minister of God.
“Pastor
Edmund,” Asia began, paused for a moment, then continued, “I have not told
anyone yet that I’m … well, that I’m going to die soon. I am not long for this
world.”
“None of
us are,” came his quiet response.
Asia
shook her head. “My cancer has returned,
and I am choosing not to do any more treatments. I’m so old –.”
“No,
ma’am. God takes us when he’s ready.”
Mama
always said that.
October is my other no-die month. Here’s why: I read or hear about too many deaths of
cancer victims in October. It’s Breast
Cancer Awareness Month and while I appreciate my breast cancer brethren bloggers
enlightening us with statistics about BC, or sharing their own problems and
concerns, I hate reading about people who actually die of breast cancer during
this month.
Twitter is a wonderful resource for those is us with breast
cancer, especially metastatic breast cancer.
The tweets are usually full of information (or people asking questions
which brings about information), updates from those undergoing treatment, pleas
for information and/or prayers, and occasionally even something humorous. I especially enjoy the fake conversation
between a Cancer Haver and a Muggle. If
you don’t know what a Muggle is (I did not because I am not a Harry Potter
Fan), you do know people who trivialize something you hold seriously. So, someone saying, “You don’t look like you’re
sick” is a Muggle indeed because you
have cancer and are sick but have managed to still look good. (I guarantee you
that inside a cancer-ravaged body, all is ugly.)
So, this October, I looked forward to the words of wisdom from
serious breast cancer bloggers and I was not disappointed, But that first week
of October, it seemed like every other Tweet was written by a husband, sister,
child of someone who had just died.
Breaks my heart … makes me wonder when someone (who?) will write, “This
is Linda’s ___. She died today.”
Please don’t say “She lost her battle with cancer.” Hate that.
Yes, I get that I’m struggling to stay alive, but I had no desire to be
drawn into this war and I refuse to think of myself as armor riddled as I take
another Verzenio tablet or go see my oncologist for those two lovely shots of
Faslodex which I need each month to stay away from the battlefield.
You’re probably thinking, “What’s wrong with this chick is
that she’s just scared?” Well, yeah,
I am. I don’t think of myself as old,
and I certainly don’t want to die.
Second thing you might wonder is what month is it okay to
die? All right, you got me there.
Maybe I don’t want any deaths in October because several of my
family members have October birthdays. Or
perhaps it’s because my first cancer diagnosis was in October, and I don’t want
my ending to be in the same month. I don’t
know. I have a story …
My lovely daughter was born on a rainy October day in
1985. After her birth, my husband called
our parents and siblings who them passed the information out to the world. My dad somehow got the onerous job of telling
his mother-in-law. Her first response to
hearing of her great-granddaughter’s birth was, “Oh! Today is the day Tom died!”
Tom was her husband, my grandfather, and if I were truly
talented at writing I’d get their love story down because it saturates you with
love.
But my dad was not having his new granddaughter associated
with a death.
“No,” he replied with (I imagine) calm, steel, determination
and years of Catholic upbringing in his voice. “Today is the day that Tom went
on to a better life.”
Of course, I didn’t hear this story right away, but when I did,
I was so glad that my father made sure that we not attach a new baby’s birth to
a death that had happened twelve years before.
Later I realized that Dad was right. Grandma saw only sadness in Grandpa’s death, and
nothing – including Dad’s response to her statement - changed that attitude for
the thirty-eight years she grieved his loss. If I were a stronger, more
religious person at the time, I would have celebrated the fact that a good man
had earned eternal life on the day my little girl started her human life.
Why can’t I look at death that way? Fear, probably.
Oh! And I should note
that my grandfather was born in October.
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