51 today. This is the situation.
So fifty was...interesting. But the weird year sort of matched my inability to reconcile that 50 was, reportedly, my age. Being 50 years old was as preposterous as having cancer.
For months I've said I'm over and done and on the other side, and this only becomes more true as time passes.
There are few lingering effects of cancer and chemo. I have very short hair, but part of that is now by choice. My eyebrows are a bit thin, but good enough. I still get easily exhausted, not by normal daily life, but more with extraordinary effort, like hauling kayaks up into the shed and moving firewood and getting the boat off the lake. We had been working on those exact things at the cabin a few weeks ago when I said I needed to sit and catch my breath -- I was completely depleted. That's when Bob said, "Maybe you should get more exercise."
I was very weak and lacked the strength at that moment that it would have taken to end his life. I certainly was thinking something like "Fuck you," or "Fuck off," or "How about go fuck yourself." I might have said something along those lines. But we got the winterizing done and life went on.
Turns out I was only able to go on if I was replaying that exchange over, and over, and over in my head, while also thinking about any possible situation where my husband commenting "Maybe you should get more exercise" would be a helpful, supportive, welcome remark.
A few days after the initial incident, I was able to calmly explain this thought exercise to Bob, and report that in spite of trying really hard, I could not see how that would be helpful ever, in any situation. But ESPECIALLY, especially, less than five months after I completed chemo.
I think he heard me. And to make sure, because I'm a grown up (51 today, apparently, for fuck's sake), every time Bob mentions his sore neck or feeling tired or in response to seemingly unrelated things, I say, "Maybe you should get more exercise."
Ha! This isn't the story I thought I was writing tonight. A year ago things looked very different, but so it goes. Look at the expression on Abbie's face. "How did we even get here." I know, dog. I know. I wonder that, too.
If someone told me I'd be publicly posting topless photos of myself on my 51st birthday, I wouldn't have been too surprised, but on the other hand I wouldn't have thought they'd look like this. Happy to still be here; it's all pretty damn amazing. My deepest love to all you angels, and the love of my life, Bob Weidman, for hanging with me through this life, even when it's kind of lumpy and the part in the middle is in the frame. You are all my greatest joy, though I had some transcendent churros at Colita tonight.
