Firstly, let me thank you all for your ever-wonderful suggestions. I will endeavour to get to them after this coming weekend. It's my oldest's High School Grad Dinner/Dance/After Party, and as part of the sinking ship known as a "Committee", I'm committed (oh, the irony) to making all the magic happen. I'm slammed for time, and at this point, energy.
But this post has been rolling around in my head while I've been making glitter stars and sparkly ceiling pendants.
It trumps all else right now, and I must roll it out and onto the computer. Y'all know how that goes, right?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So I've been thinking lately about a movie.
"About a Boy".
It's based on a best-selling novel by Nick Hornby. I believe the author also had a hand in the screenplay as well.
The main character, Will Freeman, is played by Hugh Grant. Part of the reason I liked the movie so much was that this character, while charming on the surface, was a little against character for old Hugh. It was refreshing.
I also liked the clever writing. Grant's character, financially comfortable enough off that he doesn't have to work, divides his day into "units" (I think they're 1/2 hour increments - I could be wrong. Didn't have time to research this - sue me).
For example, there could be 4 units used for what he refers to as "web-based research" (surfing for porn), 2 units for "exercise" (shooting pool), or 1 unit for grooming.
I thought this was ingenious, this parcelling of time.
That was until I was diagnosed with cancer a couple of summers ago.
In Will Freeman time, I had my surgery (14 units) and recovery time (240 units hospital time, 1008 units home time).
Then came chemotherapy - a very brief 1.5 unit, once a month for 5 months/7200 units (we won't count the first month - it kinda sucked, and defied logic, time and likeability).
And now, I have come to realize, after my latest visit with my oncologist, that I live my life - not in hourly, day-to-day units - but, instead, in 3 month units.
For the next 4 years, my life will be lived from one 3 month unit to the next.
Part One of each unit consists of seeing the oncologist, of steeling myself up to arise from the reception area chair when my name is called, of calming my stomach back down from my throat to where it belongs, of willing my legs to move, one in front of the other, to walking through his office door, of smelling the air, anticipating any possibility, of trying to scan his face for any sign of a problem before he can say anything. This part concludes with a flooding of endorphins and weakening of knees upon hearing that everything looks good for this visit.
Part Two is the most bearable portion of the unit. Life floats along, ticketty-boo, and my only reminder of my 4 year plan and why I have a 4 year plan consists of acknowledging that I must get another blood test soon, and listen to the technician carp once again about how hard it is to find a vein, blah, blah, blah.
Part Three consists of the dark two weeks preceding the next appointment. Every thought can turn black on a dime, every emotion is just a hair's breadth from the surface, every unusual occurance becomes an omen, every sweet moment has a tinge of the bittersweet. The critically-panned "What If Scenario Reel" begins its unspooling, and I both treasure and loathe every moment leading up to the next appointment.
And so it will go, for 4 more years.
And if, for some reason, you think that I'm ungrateful for the gift of my life - I beg you to please not misunderstand.
I know how lucky I am. I have read the colon cancer forums in horror as people begin to document their decline, as some receive news where there is no silver lining, no upside.
In my heart, I know I am blessed to be alive.
Just try telling that to my head. And just try thinking about living in 3 month units.
It's not so charming after all.
But this post has been rolling around in my head while I've been making glitter stars and sparkly ceiling pendants.
It trumps all else right now, and I must roll it out and onto the computer. Y'all know how that goes, right?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So I've been thinking lately about a movie.
"About a Boy".
It's based on a best-selling novel by Nick Hornby. I believe the author also had a hand in the screenplay as well.
The main character, Will Freeman, is played by Hugh Grant. Part of the reason I liked the movie so much was that this character, while charming on the surface, was a little against character for old Hugh. It was refreshing.
I also liked the clever writing. Grant's character, financially comfortable enough off that he doesn't have to work, divides his day into "units" (I think they're 1/2 hour increments - I could be wrong. Didn't have time to research this - sue me).
For example, there could be 4 units used for what he refers to as "web-based research" (surfing for porn), 2 units for "exercise" (shooting pool), or 1 unit for grooming.
I thought this was ingenious, this parcelling of time.
That was until I was diagnosed with cancer a couple of summers ago.
In Will Freeman time, I had my surgery (14 units) and recovery time (240 units hospital time, 1008 units home time).
Then came chemotherapy - a very brief 1.5 unit, once a month for 5 months/7200 units (we won't count the first month - it kinda sucked, and defied logic, time and likeability).
And now, I have come to realize, after my latest visit with my oncologist, that I live my life - not in hourly, day-to-day units - but, instead, in 3 month units.
For the next 4 years, my life will be lived from one 3 month unit to the next.
Part One of each unit consists of seeing the oncologist, of steeling myself up to arise from the reception area chair when my name is called, of calming my stomach back down from my throat to where it belongs, of willing my legs to move, one in front of the other, to walking through his office door, of smelling the air, anticipating any possibility, of trying to scan his face for any sign of a problem before he can say anything. This part concludes with a flooding of endorphins and weakening of knees upon hearing that everything looks good for this visit.
Part Two is the most bearable portion of the unit. Life floats along, ticketty-boo, and my only reminder of my 4 year plan and why I have a 4 year plan consists of acknowledging that I must get another blood test soon, and listen to the technician carp once again about how hard it is to find a vein, blah, blah, blah.
Part Three consists of the dark two weeks preceding the next appointment. Every thought can turn black on a dime, every emotion is just a hair's breadth from the surface, every unusual occurance becomes an omen, every sweet moment has a tinge of the bittersweet. The critically-panned "What If Scenario Reel" begins its unspooling, and I both treasure and loathe every moment leading up to the next appointment.
And so it will go, for 4 more years.
And if, for some reason, you think that I'm ungrateful for the gift of my life - I beg you to please not misunderstand.
I know how lucky I am. I have read the colon cancer forums in horror as people begin to document their decline, as some receive news where there is no silver lining, no upside.
In my heart, I know I am blessed to be alive.
Just try telling that to my head. And just try thinking about living in 3 month units.
It's not so charming after all.
