I probably shouldn't write this. But it's 1:30 in the morning and I can't sleep. So what the hell.
I had a truly unique experience this week. Three times.
On three separate occasions this past week, three different groups came to Cindy and I with donations. As in large checks (or, in the case of one, bundles of gift cards to local stores). And it was more than money. There were hundreds of dollars worth of groceries, more gift cards, even a computer. I am absolutely stunned by such generosity, particularly in these difficult times.
And let me state, unequivocally (as we will communicate to the groups as well), that we could not be more honored, more grateful, or more humbled by these gifts. If you're reading this and you were one of the many generous donors, there is a possibility that the words that follow will indicate to you that we are in some way upset by these gifts. This couldn't be further from the truth. Please believe me when I tell you that we are absolutely in awe of the kindness that has been bestowed upon us.
Here's the thing: I've sorta been working under the understanding that, all things considered, Cindy, the kids, and I were doing okay. Financially, sure, things are tight without two full incomes anymore, but we're doing fine. Health-wise, I'm just a few days into my month of recovery and, frankly, feeling pretty good. Hell, Cindy and I went to lunch at the Fours the other day. I put pants on and everything.
How can one juxtapose dozens of people thinking I'm so seriously ill that my family requires financial assistance with lunch at the Fours? Or even Chipotle?
The only real complaint I have is about my hair. It was never that great to begin with--my mother let me go to school for 18 years looking like Bjorn Borg circa 1974--but the chemo has done weird things to it. It's not like a Brillo pad anymore…it got weirdly soft and airy. I look like Moses right after he saw the Burning Bush.
So, as I said, I had few complaints about how things were going. Everything was under control, finance-wise, health-wise, household-wise, etc.
Then one of these gifts comes in. Then another. Then a third.
And that's when it dawned on me: I'm the only person in the world who can't see how screwed I am.
(Again, kind donors, it's not your fault that this is where my mind went. And I pray you don't find me ungrateful for going there)
I mean, I must be in some world-class, North Korea-level self-denial about my foothold on reality. And Cindy, that scoundrel, is complicit in this self deception.
For so many to give so much to us, giving things they themselves surely need for their own families, are they seeing something that I'm in denial about? Do they see that I'm standing on the edge of a cliff when I feel like I'm, at worst, tip-toeing carefully around a heavily-sedated tiger?
What's the reality and what's the fantasy? I have to say that the events of the past week have shaken the rust off of the part of me that should've been scared shitless all along. Maybe that's good. Maybe all of the silly blogs and cutesy commentary about Bob Dylan was just a wall I put up between how I wanted to feel (Brave? Relentlessly positive?) and how I should feel (So scared that I can't sleep…hopeful but cognizant of the long odds).
I guess I don't know which side of the fence to fall on anymore. And it probably doesn't matter. The cancer doesn't care either way.
So I guess I'll end this by repeating that we are humbled and awed by the generosity bestowed upon us. And scared out of our minds.
And Merry Christmas.
