living the dream

When we first arrived in Lancaster last summer - disoriented and tangled in a number of secondary crises, all set in motion by Mike's rare cancer diagnosis that had just hit us like a truck, throwing every part of our lives into terrifying, uncertain disarray - the sky was too blue.

The squirrels chattered too frenetically. The sun shone in my eyes. A car alarm would vibrate inside my skull. Black telephone poles were ominously stark against white clouds. The world was saturated in such a way that perceiving it with my senses hurt.

And now, over a year later, as I come to the end of a time of relative stability that the clinical trial Mike is currently on has afforded us, the world has become more vibrant again. But not in an aggressive, harsh, more-disaster-shall-rain-upon-you-momentarily kind of way. More like golden autumn sunshine at four in the afternoon, illuminating everything and making it so beautiful you could cry. Every day, dry leaves skitter and scrape across pavement, damp wind chills my fingers gripped around the handlebars of my bike, heavy gray clouds let shafts of light through in a fast-moving sky, faces of strangers brighten in shy welcome as we pass on the street, and all of it is beckoning to me: notice, notice, notice. See this world. See this abundance.

Moving through one's days with so little protection can hurt, but not like it did when I was in shock last summer. It's the hurt of a full heart, the ache of loving a lot. 

This fall we settled into a new living situation in my mom's home, and Mike settled into a new treatment protocol, going back and forth to New York every two weeks. I started working again, doing what I love. We found a sweet babysitter. Dear friends have come to visit. We have neighbors with whom it is a joy to share everyday life. The kids got involved in school and activities and friends.

And compared to past chemotherapy regimens, this trial has been blessedly easy on Mike. His hair has grown back, he's put on weight. He has energy for things like taking Gabriel to basketball and going out on a date with me and telling the kids to pick up their toys. In short, for the first time in many many months, our lives have felt predictable, full, connected to others. Normal.

But the goal of this treatment is to get his cancer into remission so that he can have a stem cell transplant. Right back into battle. Soon he will have a PET scan to see if he's ready for that step.

So December, with its scans and treatment decisions and transitions, has been looming. This autumn idyll cannot last. In that sense, life isn't normal at all. It's a respite. We all know that things will get really hard and scary again.

But this not-normal normal life, this moment bookended by a very hard past and a very hard future? It tastes so good. Over the top good. Exquisite!

Maybe it takes knowing that everything really can turn upside down in an instant to fully appreciate the miraculous right side up quality that most days quietly offer.

The feel of Mike's warm back moving gently in sleep next to me before I get out of bed. The smell of coffee. The way Beatrice says good morning Mama and smiles and reaches for me before she even opens her eyes. The letter from a friend unfolded on the desk, asking to be reread. An emoji-laden text exchange with the babysitter about piano lessons today. Right side up, right side up, everywhere I look.

I recently added one extra day of work a week, back at Franklin & Marshall. Last Monday was my first day seeing students again. As I was locking up my bike before heading in that morning, one of the psychologists on staff crossed the parking lot and called out to me.

Biking to work!! Meagan, you're living the dream!

I looked up at her and smiled.

Yep, I said. Pretty much.