Guilty Blessing

I love being horizontal. Especially when it's in my gigantic bed, with it's 4" memory foam mattress topper (thank you, Cosco) with my hubby (in his absence one--or all--of the kids) sleeping next to me.

It's a small pleasure, but a deep pleasure, and if there's only one thing I've ever learned from being a nurse it's to revel in those smallest pleasures.

This past week, one of my patients learned that, in spite of the aggressive chemotherapy he's been getting for the past two and a half months, his tumor has doubled in size and spread to his liver, lungs and bones. Though he wishes, and we support, every attempt at the most aggressive treatments, the statistics are not in his favor. He will likely not see the end of the school year, or spring break with his kids. This will be his last Christmas. (If he makes it that far.) Anything more will truly take an honest-to-God, water-into-wine miracle. All the positive thoughts, prayers and other universal alignments will continue towards curing this, but . . . I get to have that conversation with he and his amazing wife tomorrow.

He is 40.

The Guilty Blessing is that experiences like this are why I have a living will. (There really is nothing worse than families fighting over what a loved one wanted in their last days. If you love your family, give them the gift of never having to wonder.) This is why I have a series of scrapbooks for me and my kids that detail some of the most favorite moments of our lives together. Why I have started a notebook for each of them with random thoughts, lessons, quotes--things I want to leave them with. Why I'd rather have a black light dance party in the living room than get to bed exactly on time.

Just in case tomorrow never comes.

Tragedy happens. To honest, good, stable, productive, happy families. Every day. And yet the sun still comes up the next morning.

Sometimes I think that if something horrid happened to my family that I would feel like the universe was taunting me by being so normal. Yet I also see those who have suffered incredible loss, and end up healing--strong, smart, functional, productive, happy and NORMAL.

I guess the awareness is a blessing in and of itself. The icing is being able to meet some incredible people. Someday I want to write a book, to be able to tell some of their stories.

In the meantime I'll hug my kids and try to make a small difference for those who have to face it.