On the cusp of knowing

I hadn’t realized I had been holding my breath for months, since my surgery, really. I hadn’t realized that it was a big deal, or maybe I downplayed it, because what could I do, really? It is all so out of my control.

But it all is, isn’t? This whole little life of ours.

The feeling of holding my breath is real. I feel out of breath. My pulse has slowed to the point that climbing stairs is tough, running out of the question. My metabolism slowed, impacting my body, my mind, my heart. This medically-induced hypothyroidic-state a preparation for treatment.

But first, a scan. A little look inside to find out what is in there.

I am on the cusp of knowing.

Knowing whether there is still cancer in me, and if there is, how much.

I go for a walk in the woods. The blue-gray color of the sky, the look of snow, but without the smell and the temperatures to match. Just a chilly fall day, the leaves mostly all off the trees. I move slowly, and try to steady my breath. My desire to move my body, now feeling fuller and rounder than it has been due to my lack of thyroid hormones, matched by not being able to fully catch my breath if I move too quickly.

I’ve spent the past few weeks being ok with it all, resigned to the process, to allowing it to happen and knowing there is nothing I can do.

But now, on the eve of knowing, I am scared, nervous, anxious – what will they see? I want to hold tight to my ignorance, to not knowing.

And rationally, I know, no matter what, I will be ok. My treatment regimen, to start the next day, will be determined by what they see. I will take on each step of the process, each day will move forward, day by day. Step by step. All do-able, all manageable.

But this moment. This, right here. This is the worst.

And yet, I cannot move forward without knowing.

And yet, on this cusp…

It is these hours, a mere 15-16 hours until I know… they are the tough ones. The ones I want to distract myself from. Yes, everything beyond these hours will be easier, no matter what happens, what the doctor sees. But right now, right here – it feels scary and unclear.

I’m left wanting to grasp. To reach out, to feel solid ground, to distract, to fill this need, and to anchor myself in these hours. And maybe this is it, instead, to just sit with this fear and anxiousness. To revele in the unknown, in these times when we think we can actually know everything with the click and a google search and reassure our brains and our souls at all times.

But… instead to marvel in the unknown.

And in that unknown, knowing, and trusting, that will be done and it will pass. Because everything after is easy. Or, at least, easier.