It's Okay Not to Be Okay

My two oldest daughters recently moved out. I've loved seeing the apartments they've each chosen and how they've decorated—so different yet ironically the same. Although I'm extremely proud of them, this HAS been a hard transition for me as a mother. I miss seeing Ruby every morning before she goes off to tattoo clients. She'd always excitedly show me mock-up tattoos she'd worked on. Then, shortly after Ruby left, Sky would bound through the door, gushing about her morning as a barista. Occasionally, we'd sit at the table together: I would write while she worked on homework. (She's studying to get her bachelor's in anthropology). But... Sky moved out in February, and Ruby followed suit only a few weeks later. Now, my mornings—previously filled with excitement and laughter—are quiet. This IS exactly what I've been working toward (seeing my children grow up), but it is hard. 

In 2020, when doctors only gave me two years to live, I vowed to defy this prediction and fight my hardest so I could see my four kids grow up. My youngest was 10 at the time, and this felt like a Herculean task. Yet, here we are; two of my children are adults now, and it feels different than I anticipated. 

I recently told a fellow cancer patient about this. "I'm fighting cancer so hard." The thought carried much more weight than normal, making me pause. "I need to be here until my youngest turns 18, but I hope my body won't give out on me before then. When she's 18, I think at that point, I won't continue getting treatments. I'm just... tired."

He nodded. "But by then, it'll be something else. Here I am, almost 80, wanting to see my new grandbaby be born." He broke out laughing. "I'm tellin' ya. It'll always be something. Your youngest will turn 18, and then, you'll find something else to live for: a wedding... an anniversary... a birth... a graduation... Once people realize death isn't too far away, it's natural to fight mortality."

But I wasn't quite so sure. I keep saying that with terminal cancer, I feel like I'm tied to the tracks, and the train is coming. But now that my two oldest kids have moved out, death is somehow hurtling toward me, moving way too fast. Now, I don't just know about the train, I can see it! 

To be honest, lately, I've struggled making it to treatments. It's not that I actively want to give up; it's just that treatments are grueling. No one hopes to be so nauseous they can't keep food down or volunteers to have fevers and treatments that almost killed them in the past. People don't joyfully sign up to feel like warmed poo on a platter, knowing the only end in sight... is death. 

After talking with this man, I sulked alone in my house. It was about the time of day when I'd hug Ruby goodbye and see Sky after her shift ended. This hit me like the truth of my own mortality, and I'm embarrassed to say... that I cried. 

This ugly-sobbing, red-faced self-pity continued until my eyes landed on a family picture—the bright faces of my WHY: my reason. I sat straighter, rubbed my eyes, and sniffled. 

Sure, it IS okay not to be okay—as long as we don't get mired in it forever. But I'd had my moment, and now I needed to pull myself together, cast off my own worries, and think about others. If this transition felt hard for me, maybe it was also hard for everyone else. I spoke with Mike (my husband) and our two youngest kids. It turns out they were missing Ruby and Sky terribly, too! Then, when I called to check on my adult daughters, they asked for something surprising. "I WOULD like... to have a cooking day," Ruby admitted. "Just to have some frozen meals." Sky quickly agreed. And I could hear it in their voices... My oldest daughters missed me just as much as I missed them! Those beautiful babies still needed me, just in a different capacity.

"You know, this is such a big change for me. I lived with you for 22 years," I said to Ruby. "That's the longest I've lived with anyone. And Sky, I lived with you for 19 years! That a looong time. I really... I miss you two." There. I'd said it.

So, the rest of the week, I thought about recipe ideas and bought extra groceries. Instead of dwelling on my failing health and everything that seemed "wrong," I started focusing on everything that's right. On Sunday, everyone convened at Ruby's eclectic apartment, where she has dinosaur and mushroom-themed decor. She even tipped an LED mushroom upside down and screwed it under a cupboard so it can cleverly hold various things like keys, bottle openers, and jewelry. After Mike and I taught all four of our kids various recipes and froze enough meals to last a month, I rested in Ruby's front room on a gigantic beanbag. Everyone's laughter echoed from the kitchen as Sky relayed a story and then said she'd had a wonderful morning cooking with us. "I'm just so happy with life right now," she said. "Really, really happy."

Ruby's voice lit with so much joy. "I do miss everyone, and it can be stressful right now because there's still so much to do. But.. it's nice to be on my own."

Gratitude suddenly filled every bit of me, and I beamed. Instead of dwelling on how hard life can be, I simply basked in the present moment, so fortunate I'm even alive to see my oldest daughters be self-sufficient and happy.

That night, I snuggled into Mike. "We're halfway there," I said.

"Halfway?" Mike held me so tenderly, waiting for me to continue.

"We're raising amazing kids, and they're doing so well. Now, two of them are fully on their way. We just have two to go."

"You know, I'm really proud of them," Mike said. " And, Elisa... I'm proud of you, too."

I breathed deeply. I'd been unaware of how much I needed to hear those words. 

"I know this isn't always easy," he continued. "Thank you for fighting so we can have more time with you. We need you. I need you."

I hugged him so hard. "There will always be reasons to keep fighting to be with you and the kids." I realized my friend—the fellow cancer patient—had been right. "You make my life wonderful, Mike. Thank you for making me feel like I still matter."

After Mike kissed me on the forehead, I fell asleep with a fresh perspective and renewed strength. That week, going to treatments didn't seem quite so unbearable. Sure, cancer can be tough, but I suddenly felt tougher. Change is scary, but from the right vantage point, it's also absolutely beautiful. I'm eager to keep fighting to see whatever the future might hold.