Grey Day

It’s a grey afternoon in Salt Lake. Most people would describe the weather as gloomy. It feels more as though a blanket is covering the city, cloaking the mountains. Somewhat comforting to me. I like blankets these days. I was asleep last night when James came poking into my room, somewhere around one in the morning, searching for my i-pod. He sat down on my oversized bed and we talked for a little bit. I reminded him that it has been six months since I was diagnosed. How time flies. Six months have passed by quickly, I’d have to admit, probably in some sort of chemo-induced haze. I don’t remember any of it very clearly, and truth be told, that’s fine by me. I never would have dreamed six months ago, boarding a plane in Seattle, bound for Utah, that my life would possibly change this radically in such a short period of time. I am well acquainted at this point with things most people know next to nothing about: platelets, white blood cell counts, Boudreaux’s Butt Paste (I jest not).

It’s not a New Years Eve where I necessarily care to contemplate what the coming year holds for me. Perhaps it’s because part of me already knows, but more so I think it’s because if there’s one thing this last year has taught me, it’s that I have no way of knowing. I was asked, over the holidays, what my future plans were. “What do you mean?” I responded. The question was clarified: “I mean, after you’re done with chemotherapy.” I don’t know. I really, truly do not know. I mean, I do. Viscerally, deep in the fiber of my being, I know that life will move on. Some day this will be a blip in my life, that crazy, hazy year I spent battling leukemia. Maybe I’ll place it conveniently next to the year I battled acne, or the several years I endured braces as an adolescent. But it’s my world right now, the only one that feels real. This paradox plays itself out in my mind daily, like some eternal game of ping-pong going on inside of me: the one part of me that knows inherently that this will recede into memory, and the irrational part of me that can’t imagine what it will be like to ‘get on with my life’ again. I remind myself that everything occurs in this way. I can’t explain to you how I would ride a bike, but I know that I could mount a bike again and it would all come back. In the same way, I believe that my life, my way of being, will pick up again. I’ll get the hang of it.

So for now, I don’t have any New Years resolutions. I don’t have any musings on the future. That feels a little too far ahead for my planning capabilities. For now, I’m content to sip my peppermint tea and enjoy this grey afternoon. When you think about it, there really is so much beauty to be enjoyed. Happy New Year.

Judd