May is officially here and I’m trying my best not to go into freak out mode. You know what May means; and no matter how many Jedi mind tricks I attempt to sell myself – one’s subconsciousness always knows the truth: May will never get easier. May 8th: diagnosis day. Mother’s Day: the day you started chemotherapy. (i.e. The day I allowed poisonous venom to be pumped throughout your teeny, tiny body. One of a thousand ways in which I failed to protect you.) May: the beginning of the end. May: there is no escape.
I will come up with some sort of plan to get through the shitty days of May. I realize how very lucky I am to know that I will do so surrounded by some of my most favorite people. Having my lovelies by my side will help ease the pain a bit. But the body never forgets. No matter where I am, who I am with, what I am doing – every cell within me remembers the pain of these dates.
I don’t live in a normal world anymore. I live in a world that I often feel very alone. I tend to do alright in this world. This world without you is so hard for me to live in, but I have done my best to make it bearable by living each day the best way I’m capable because I hope against all hope that you are watching me, and that you are with me. I refuse to disappoint you by being a loser Momma. You may say this new perspective has given me a clarity I never had before. I guess that all comes with the territory of living a life that includes a line of demarkation: a ‘before and after’. My before cancer life, and after cancer life are unequivocally two completely, wholly, vastly different lives.
The always absence of you is more ever-present during certain times and certain days; May being one of those times. As always, I will keep you tucked as close to me as possible, and carry you with me in everything I do and everywhere I roam. Thank you for not giving up on me.
I miss you. I love you. I hope you are safe.
Stay with me, Sweet Boy.