Remember when I used to joke about whether this was my last Hanukkah, or Passover, or Rosh Hashanah? I’ve stopped joking.
When Dr. Blood Lite told me I had one year to live, I forbid myself from becoming preoccupied with the clock ticking down my days. A few months have now passed since I received this news, and I’ve been trying to live in the moment rather than focusing on what’s down the road. I’m a realist, though, remember?
I realize no one knows exactly how long I will live. The doctor has given me his best estimate because that’s all he can do. Only time will tell. Maybe it won’t be 365 days, but 364 or 366, or 300 or 400. When I was first diagnosed with polycythemia, I thought I’d be dead within 10 years, and here I am 18 years later. My diagnosis with CML, although scary at the time, turned out to be a minor blip in the story of my health. I know I should be focussing on all the living I’ve done since I’ve been sick and all the living I have left to do, rather than the fact that my life may end sooner than I had hoped.
Then Passover came, followed closely by Easter. This year is supposed to be about creating memories, but last weekend all I could think about was whether I was celebrating these holidays for the last time. All my efforts at living in the moment failed miserably.
I gave myself permission to be sad, which I have to do sometimes. Sad that next year’s Seder would go on without me there to participate. Sad that I’d never again be able to hunt for Easter eggs like all the other preschoolers. I’ve heard of dying people celebrating Christmas early; I guess I could do the same for my favourite holidays as well, but I wouldn’t be fooled.
The thing about being told I have one year to live is that every milestone that passes in that year is potentially my last. Holidays, anniversaries, birthdays, even seasons–any of them could be my last. If my doctor’s prediction of my life span is accurate, I’ll probably live through my 55th birthday next October, but my 56th is unlikely. I should be around for our 6th anniversary this June, but likely not our 7th the following year.
Let’s return to the Seder. Although I was not the designated afikomen seeker–that’s assigned to the youngest person present–I bullied the rightful one into allowing me to conduct the search, figuring it would likely be my last chance to do so. Thankfully, others who were more observant than me guided me to the hidden stash using the red-light/green-light method. This method is effective with toddlers and spacey people like me. Even with this help, the young’un had to rescue me in the end, since, despite all her expert guidance, I still came up dry as a piece of matzah. It may have been my last chance to find the afikomen and I failed miserably.
I will try to create only happy memories in my final year, but some days, I’ll be mourning what’s potentially my last kick at whatever can I’m facing. I thank you in advance for being patient with me.