Pieces

“The worst thing about falling to pieces is that humans can do it so quietly.”
― r.i.d

At the end of my treatment for breast cancer in 2006, a very generous friend treated me to a day at a luxurious spa on Queen Street.  I had a pedicure and body scrub followed by a hot stone massage.  When the therapist put a hot stone on my solar plexus, I started to cry, small tears at first which developed into a salty sea.  I was embarrassed by my tears, unable to stop them and stunned by my level of grief.  For nearly a year, I had been brave through the pain of two surgeries, the debilitating side effects of chemo and the almost paralyzing fatigue of daily radiation.  I put my best face on every day and went to work.  I still ran my home and looked after my family.  I didn't see the meltdown coming.  If I was going to fall apart, I expected I would have done it earlier.  I had survived, there was nothing to cry about at that point.

For the last two years, I have once again been staring my morality straight in the eye.  Two surgeries, lots of pain, lots of fear.  Heart failure and heart failure the sequel.  I've mostly been brave.  I put my best face on for every medical appointment, wanting my doctors to like me enough to work hard at saving me.  I put my best face on to go to work.  I run my home and I try to take care of my family and friends.  Through the grace of God, I have survived.  The news is good.  The surgery has been declared a success.  And yet, now on the other side of it, I am feeling those small cracks begin along the fault lines of my soul.  I suspect the crash is coming.  I'm not looking forward to it but maybe it's what I need to let the true healing begin.