Counting Days

On Monday surgeons will open up a hole in my skull and take out a persistent and hopefully benign tumor.  All week long I have been counting days and paying attention to things that wouldn't normally phase me. 

I am very lucky, the tumor is treatable, operable and likely benign. The odds are overwhelmingly in my favour.  Recovery should be measured in weeks and months, not years or never.

Last weekend as I watched the Alcina kids take their finals bows I felt this huge wash of relief and emotion. They had done it.  WE had done it.  Many people were not happy with my decision to put off the brain surgery so that I could finish the Seattle Historical Arts for Kids Alcina project.  And truthfully if I had know how hard it would be on my body and my brain, if I had known how debilitating the anti seizure drugs would be I might not have done it.  As it was I was blissfully unaware what a massive undertaking I had embarked on.  There were days when getting off the couch seemed insurmountable, but there were those kids and that music.  All those expectations.  I knew this was a special project.  Kids singing and dancing in a Baroque Opera.  With a small but mighty period orchestra and the able teaching many specialist teachers and coaches.  A fencing master, vocal coaches, Baroque dance teacher, singing plants, a hippogrif, teen chorus, acting cast, and a young dancers chorus.  Oh, and the show had to move!  Two rehearsal venues and three performance spaces.  On a wafer thin budget, with an untrained but very willing teenaged stage manager. What was I thinking?

That end of show things where people get all weepy and swear to meet up for coffee?  Yeah, that was never me.  End of show, time to pack up, wave goodbye and move on.  But those kids?  I just wanted to pack them all up and take them home.  Yes. All.  Even the pesky ones.  They gave me a huge burst of happy to take with me into that operating room.    I am as proud as proud can be to have been a small part of such an extraordinary project.  Totally worth the anxiety and the drugs and whole feeling like I am living in soup.  Worth it in spades just to look up at that stage full of happy, confident, jubilant children and know that I had a part in it.  I made a difference for them and for the families and friends who got to see them in a totally different light.  They made a difference for me, reminding me that there are things worth being uncomfortable for, there are risks worth taking.  8 days and counting.

An ordinary weeknight "see you next time" devolved in a teary cry that left me feeling confused and slightly afraid that I couldn't continue to see people.  I stood in a tulip field on a sunny day and thought to myself.  " If I don't wake up he'll have this.  He'll have his Mama forever surrounded by colour and sunshine"   7 days and counting... There is nothing quite like looking into the face of your child and seeing your own mortality stare back. 7 days.

Handing the bigger boy off to his other house.  Damn. I miss that kid when he's not here. 6 days.

Going about my week and ticking things off the big list of things to do, I caught myself thinking "When will I do this again? In a week? A month? Longer?"  5 days.

Earlier today I was in the pick up line at school  and then driving Doodle to fiddle lessons and then hitting up the PCC for it's free fruit for kids program and a slice of excellent pizza. When will such an ordinary Thursday happen again? 4 days.

And now the weekend is almost here.  And on it's heels, Monday.  Eviction Day.  It's my last weekend with an invader in my head.  Eviction is imminent.

It has been somewhat of an unknown risk to wait.  A greater drug load on my body,  a greater stress load on my family.  What  I gained in the process is immeasurable and I plan to hold onto it with both hands. Counting days.  Days until I wake up without a tumor in my brain, without the constant threat of a catastrophic seizure. Days.  Ordinary and extraordinary so many days.