The Good Stuff

The world shrank to the size of the sterile tube around me. The machine’s clamoring thump-thump-thump resounded, a loud drumbeat against my skull. Its cold, impersonal surface became my only companion as it scanned my body, searching for more melanoma. Every three months, I “get” to spend a few hours in that tube, being reduced to a simple gown and my soul. It’s probably bizarre, but MRIs always remind me of how we’ll leave this world. As I take off my jewelry, magnetic eyelashes, and hair clips, I soberly remember that we will all—at some point—leave EVERYTHING behind. 

You'd think I’d be used to scans by now, but sometimes I still get so afraid, thinking about how the same device that's supposed to keep me above ground is ironically similar to a coffin. In these moments of terror, the only thing that saves me is my imagination. And I've come to appreciate the power of good memories. It’s a game I play, a mental escape. One moment I’m trapped in the MRI machine; the next, I’m back on a pier in Jamaica during my honeymoon. The salty air brings my senses to life, and the gentle lap of waves against the wooden planks tames my soul. I sit with Mike, planning our perfect future filled with happiness...and health... How precious that word sounds now that so much has changed.

The machine continues its tha-whumping, but my mind can’t bear to focus on that. Instead, I’m lost in a highlight reel of my life, a dance through the past that I’ve been ridiculously lucky to live. I see myself in a hospital room, holding my newborn babies for the first time, staring at them with a wonder that felt bigger than the universe. I remember the magical moments of getting old-fashioned photos in Jackson Hole and playing card games in a cramped cabin with our kids. I think of traipsing across Italy while Mike pushed me in my wheelchair, and the kids pointed out beauty in everything as they ate gelato. I recall our family playing tag in Goblin Valley, as the kids ran here and there, living to the fullest. Each memory is a unique stone in a mosaic of my life, and as I piece them together in that awful machine, a surreal picture forms.

The fear and anxiety have left. Regrets and mistakes fade, nowhere to be found, replaced by a gratitude so fierce my chest aches. I’m not defined by this disease or the hardships I’ve endured. I'm a wife, a mother, a daughter, and a friend. I’ve lived a full, beautiful life, and all I have to do is close my eyes to remember. It really is in the darkness that the best moments of life truly shine.