I step into the hot steaming water, allowing the pressure to hit my face and massage my aching head. My thoughts haven’t stopped since this all started. They range from constant problem-solving to planning to what ifs.
I continued my ‘function mode’ while going through the motions- washing and rinsing and taking in the heat and release of tight muscles and twisted nerves.
I can’t really write my next devotional until I get the call. I can’t get the news and NOT tell my dear friends. So I’ll wait for the call. Okay- now if it’s malignant, how should I tell everyone? I need to record how I look… healthy, full of life, bright eyes, full-face grin. I should vlog. Oh Lord, I will look ridiculous. But I want my friends to see me before it all starts to change. Damn why didn’t I go to Blogher when I had the chance. What if I never get to meet all of them?
I should have gone.
I need to get that basket of stuff cleaned out and the letters DONE from the last year. How could I neglect an entire year of letters to my kids? Awful.
What would I say in my vlog?
“So it turns out, I am in the 20%. My odds seemed good, and now I find myself in the most honored society of people that I know. I have been through the obstacles and paperwork to get me in, and I stand proudly amongst the survivors ready to fight with the best of them. This band of people, both living and gone- are the mightiest of warriors, the toughest of fighters, the strongest survivors- of a relentless war.”
I just can’t. No. Stop. My odds ARE good. I will surely be in the 80%!!
Who gets Creeping Eruption in their teens? As the doctors stared wide-eyed at my foot, armed with medical books to research what on earth I had.
Who gets Shingles in their twenties? “This usually is found in older people, or cancer patients.”
Who gets Clostridium difficile in their thirties? “I have never seen a case in a young healthy person before” Claims the Infectious Disease Specialist.
Who gets BRCA1 in the forties? “This is rare and you are the first patient I have had with this mutation.”
OH God. Oh Lord Jesus. I never beat the odds. I don’t have a good track record at all! Every doctor was amazed at each of those diagnoses. I was in that tiny percent. I was in the …
It felt like a movie scene in the shower where you find the mom sobbing uncontrollably through the splattered water, holding her face… trembling, purging her human condition. I had fallen prey to fear, to the brutal raw ugly opening of despair.
After an hour of composing myself, just to fall apart again, I came downstairs with swollen bloodshot eyes and blew my nose.
I went to Derek…
“How are you honey?”
“I just lost it in the shower. I realized I don’t have good odds at all! I mean who gets the stuff I do? I’m ALWAYS in the minority- the crazy rare small percentile of EVERYTHING. I can easily be in that 20%…” I erupted again- pouring tears into the shoulder of my beloved. He held me, in my vulnerable moment of release.
“You ARE lucky honey. You have me and the kids.”
“I know. But…”
Later that night, his words drenched my heart with a new-found awareness of my odds.
What were the odds that I would find an honorable and faithful and unconditionally loving man for a husband? What were the odds that I would have two gorgeous incredible children? What were the odds that I would live in a beautiful home and be able to spend my days doing all the things that fulfill me, and give me purpose and joy?
What were the odds that I would have so many inspirational souls with whom I have the great honor of sharing this life with? Who has the kind of friends I do? How many beautiful hearts do I truly know and love? Too many to count.
The odds? The percentage of people in this world that have the abundance that I have? Not even 20%. Not that big. Guessing…much much lower than that.
I guess the odds aren’t that bad after all.