Clouds of Grief

As I was lying on my exercise mat, looking up at the ceiling, it seemed as though there were clouds of grief and loss swirling overhead. That's what this year seems to be filled with--grief.

If I reached up to pull one of those swirls down, it would unravel a memory of a time before COVID. A time before my first cancer diagnosis in 2012. A time before my younger son died. 

This happens a lot--these memories curling around me, so weighted with loss. They come to me like a life review, which I've read often happens after death. 

This morning, I unfolded one of these clouds, and it took me back to a time when my older son was 5. We were living in Colorado. To keep him occupied over the summer break, I bought him a dinosaur excavation kit. I set his younger brother up in his Tumbleform chair on the kitchen floor to hang out with us while we became archaeologists. My older son even wore the goggles to protect his eyes from debris. It was an adventure and a way to pass time. Now it seems like something precious I didn't fully appreciate while I was in it. 

Another wispy cloud held the remembrance of hiking through Guadalupe Mountains National Park. We were on a year-long road trip after quitting our jobs, selling our house, and buying an RV. Our older son was 2. Our younger son who had Trisomy 18 was born on the road. I carried him against me in a purple rebozo, and we came upon a ridge at the end of a hike. It was pretty. We took pictures, and then turned around. But now it's one of those cherished times I wish I'd held onto a bit longer. 

I've lost many things in life: an emerald ring my grandmother bought for me when I was 12; my favorite Waterman pen on a university campus; grandparents and friends; my son. 

I've had two lumpectomies in the past. My PCP says she thinks it's time for a mastectomy. I'll wait to hear what the breast surgeon says later this month. But I may lose my breasts, too. 

I write, so if I have chemotherapy, I'll lose energy to work on all the projects I have lined up. 

I'll lose time with my teenager while I work to overcome cancer once more. 

There is a lot to grieve. Even not going to store in the time of COVID (at least the same way I used to) brings me a hint of sadness. But within all of the loss there are things to cling to; memories to hold close. I hope my younger son will stay with me while I navigate this unknown path. I know the swirls of flashbacks will. And hopefully, I'll be able to move through this cancer treatment and be able to create more worthwhile memories to one day pull down and look at some day in the future. 

But for now, I'm taking things one day at a time.