stages of gain

Frances, Beatrice, a friend of Frances's, my mom, and I went together to see a matinee today of Beauty and the Beast performed by students at my old high school.

It was marvelous.

I'm not just saying that. I'm not saying that in the way very positive and supportive people do, who think every effort put forth by children is so so so great. Wasn't that great? It was so great! Actually, no it wasn't. Ask my kids. When I hear a boy who obviously didn't practice enough at the recital missing notes, I find it hard not to frown. When Gabriel shows me his latest picture of a medieval warrior wielding outsized weaponry, I tell him to add some color this time. When Frances sang the song she's been working on over the past few days for me tonight I suggested she should try a different narrative approach. I'm a regular tiger mom.

Well, maybe more of a tiger cub mom. A kitten mom. Anyway - these kids today were amazing. What a feat! Their focus and energy nearly always stayed sharp, and when I spied an ensemble cast member flag - absently fixing a sleeve or shifting her eyes around - I confess it made me love them all the more because it reminded me that they were, after all, kids up there. And my kid, that dear one snug on my lap, was absolutely rapt the entire time. She screamed in fright when the lights dimmed, and it took awhile to convince her that she was going to be okay after the Beast appeared onstage.

At one point, well into the second act, she turned to me and whispered: Mama. Mama. When we watched Beauty and the Beast, um, in the movie, Gaston's ponytail was different. And he didn't have that red cape on.

Yes, I whispered. Different.

But Mama, she almost shouted back to me, why did he change his clothes??

The animated Gaston was the same being as the sixteen year old skinny boy in a wig and tights up there on stage.

It is such a privilege to behold the world as a newly minted three-year-old sees it. Wow. Magical, scary, brilliant, immersive.

And maybe moreso, just maybe, because last week Mike had a PET/CT scan that showed no sign of his cancer. We were so scared in the days leading up to it. His symptoms have been hard to understand (caused by his treatment or his cancer?) and we were afraid we would find out he hadn't responded to treatment, and he would have to do more, and our world of uncertainty and strain would pick up and continue endlessly and honestly, could we even bear it? But then we found out he did respond to treatment. And the doctor said it was very good news. And though he still needs monitoring and still struggles with some pain and difficulty, that reality marked a profound shift in how I experience everyday life.

What are the five stages of gain? The stages of anticipating-loss-and-being-given-more-life-instead? Initial joy and relief, followed by confusion, bewilderment. Exhaustion. Susceptibility to cold viruses.  Compulsive plan-making, now that one can. Irritability. More relief. Anger. High expectations of oneself. Wonder. Lots and lots of exhaustion.

The adrenaline left me, after eight months, and now I am left with so much weight and feeling. My entire being feels, for lack of a better word, disorganized.

But today - today! - as I sat there in the dark and felt the fizzing happiness of the audience all around me, it occurred to me that two weeks ago, I could never have made it there, sharing a seat that was purchased a few days before. Up until that scan, I avoided making commitments. Soon into Mike's treatment I learned that making plans - anything from inviting a friend for a playdate to thinking about spring break - was impossible. Every invitation was an occasion to consider, once again, the fragility of our lives. I couldn't predict what would happen, from one day to the next. Not tomorrow, not a year from now.

Now I can.