A Cancerous Year

Today is March 16th.

A year ago today, I sat so very pregnant.

I sat numb. After buckling at the knees on the bedside of a man I love so deeply. A man that I thought was in need of laparoscopic surgery for an appendix. That simple explanation replaced with a diagnosis of stage four cancer. 

I can remember clawing my way off the floor of the St. Peter’s Emergency Room. I can’t remember the expression on Matt’s face. Calling my parents. Crying. Then taking over Matt’s medical decisions, as he shutdown. 

We’ve spent a year grieving what we’re losing and what we’ve lost. The same year was spent  fighting the terrible tragedy that is cancer while trying to live the best we can. 

I can close my eyes and relive it all. The entire year. I don’t even know how Matt has sustained it all. The poking. The prodding. The medicine. The torture. 

The reality is Matt has already beat some of the statistics and some expectations. Yet, it doesn’t seem enough. Today is the anniversary of the worst day of our lives. 

Tomorrow everyone is out drinking. Because they’re Irish, or they want to be Irish, or they like beer and it’s a good excuse. Instead raise your glass for the survivors, like Matt who have made it even  a day with cancer. Toast to those who gave all they had and lost the fight like my friend Kendra’s husband. The warriors like him who left behind young children after fighting against an opponent that’s cheating. Cancer does not play fair. 

A year ago, between sobs I begged for anything, but the hand we were dealt. 

A year has passed and I beg for the same thing. From the pew of my church. The drivers seat of my car, while dropping off my children, and while sitting in meetings at work that couldn’t seem more pointless in comparison to the pain I’ve witnessed. 

It’s been a year. And  I can hope for another. 

But, above all else I hope for a miracle.