I don’t know who we are anymore.
I remember five years ago, the hushed, rushed conversations we had. I remember the scans, the diagnosis. The see-saw of hope and despair, relief and disillusion. The times of tears and the times of anguish.
I don’t know who we are anymore. Our lives are strewn across the floor; precious crystal balls that have been dropped, so soundly shattered that all we have are the scattered pieces. I think about the five years of looking at the mess, scooping up the shards, and trying to piece them together once more. I wonder if I have the energy to do it again.
We try to make sense of the present through the lens of a limited future. I know there are no promises for anyone, yet the rest of our marriage is divided into three-month chunks. The Universe delivers our lives grudgingly, measuring the days treatment-by-treatment. We cling on, not sure of anything apart from knowing we do not have enough. Not enough time, not enough energy, not enough hope.
Look at us now, the earnest, frazzled carer and the resolute, miraculous survivor. Once we were lovers, once we were soul mates, once we gave each other a present and a future. What have I for you now? I meet your bravery with the news that I have vacuumed. My response to your miraculous existence is a mundane conversation about what we should have for dinner.
Our children parent us.
Tomorrow, I will find me scooping up the glass in an effort to rebuild. But today? Today, my spirit is shattered, too. I walk around our rooms with the crisp sound of shattered glass beneath my feet, silently begging for your forgiveness that, for the time being, I have lost us.