My Year of Un-Magical Thinking Begins

Fifteen months ago during a not so unusual procedure “the lump” was found. Within minutes my world, i.e., my center, my foundation, my focus, my very being, began to shift form, tilt, and dissolve like so many sand castles as the tide washes in. Without the accompanying sense of renewal or rebirth I was instead bereft, alone, and unprepared. Oh, so unprepared.

On reflection, I see how liminal the moment truly was. My life suspended: on one side, the before, where every bit of me stretched out in remembered uniformity with my valleys, verdant plains, and climactic peaks. On the other, darkness, utter and complete. I could not define myself with all my former complexities and subtleties. My vision myopically narrowed to just six letters: C A N C E R.

Thus began my liminal year: My anchors cut, adrift, I could never be the same, nor could I imagine what would be. Who I would be. I could only be. One moment, one minute, one hour at a time. It was too painful to think or live any other way. So much so that at times the fear so stark and raw that I could barely breath. That or tears, buckets of them. Breathless or drowning, essentially transformed against my will.

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