It's been seven years since we received news of Phil's myeloma diagnosis. It's such a bittersweet day, every year. I can't help but remember the hopeless, sinking feeling and utter trauma of learning that Phil had cancer. But I also can't help but be grateful for seven years when, at that time, we had no idea what was to come.
Strangely, it feels like an eternity ago and simultaneously like it all happened yesterday. Or even like it happened to someone else. I don't often visit this blog and read past entries because it makes me feel so sad for the Us of seven years ago. I wish I could visit the Me who would sit down and weep in the diaper aisle of Meijer at midnight when I was finally alone with my thoughts, and give myself a snapshot of just how exquisitely ordinary life would be in seven years.
Thankfully, myeloma is no longer at the forefront of our daily lives or thoughts. But it's kind of like a little guy that sits on my shoulder and taps me from time to time. I'm always aware of its presence. Myeloma is always just sort of there, but it doesn't scare me like it used to. Chemo continues, but so do our lives.
Because other things are always there, too. Our three amazing kids who never stop for a minute and fill our lives with so much laugher and awe and joy. Our families who move mountains to love and care for us. Friends who make us laugh and aren't afraid to ask how things are going. Our gratitude drowns out the cancer noise.
I am hopeful that in another seven years I will be able to write a similar blog. In the mean time, there are clothes to fold, dishes to wash and kids to take to the park. Ah, exquisite ordinariness.