I’ve done it again

I could cry. I finished another book series. I loved it. I miss the characters already and my tablet is still hot. Five books of pure bliss.

When I started high school, I discovered the school library had a whole bunch of books by a lady named Agatha Christie. I devoured them. All. I could never guess who the murderer was. The best one? The Murder of Roger Akroyd. A classic. Genius.

After that, I was hooked on mysteries.  P.D. James, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (meh), then a whole bunch of more contemporary writers and more mysteries. No one was ever as good as Agatha Christie to keep you guessing until the end.

This series wasn’t like Agatha either. I usually guessed by 70%-80% of the books who had done it, or had a pretty good idea. Only one blew me away.

But I didn’t care.

The romance between the bookshop owner and the cop/PI was what got me.

It spans on all five books and couldn’t have  been written better. It was FABULOUS. Would they? Wouldn’t they? Finally? No? What the fuck do you mean he’s getting married? Aaarrrgghhh!!!! Damn you author! I hate you! Okay, I don’t hate you anymore.  What????? You had to throw that in there? Just to fuck things up??? I’m going to die….. Oh. Okay. I feel better now. Thanks.

Each book has its own murder to be solved. But each book is just a continuation in the long and peppered-with-angst love story. What a romance. Wow.

Such deep, intelligent characters. I’ll miss them.

I’ve done this to myself again. I’ve gotten deeply sucked in a good series and now will miss the characters I’ve been living with for the past sixteen days.

I know I’ll do it again too.

To read and weep is better than not to have read at all. (Who said that?)

 

Thanks, Josh.

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Okay, what now?

The verdict is out, the diagnosis is certain, the sentence is given. Six to twelve months, no parole.

What do you now?

You wait. You wait for the signs that it’s growing; for the pain to increase; for the hints that it’s gotten worse. 

You grasp life with both hands, hold on as hard as you can. Every night when you go to bed, you pray the next day will be as good as the one that’s just over; that it won’t take a turn for the worse.

You make plans for the next few days, hoping all goes well. Take advantage of each minute, each hour, each day everything’s still okay, manageable, acceptable.

You live with the constant fear for what tomorrow may bring. What if time’s cut short? What if you don’t get to do that one last thing you craved so much?

The unfairness of it all eats at you but you don’t let it win. You fight it and think of good things; of all that’s left, of all you still need to say. You write it down in case you forget, so they’ll find it after you’re gone.

And everyone around you waits with you. Worries about you but won’t let you see, just in case it drags you down. Everyone’s pasting smiles on their faces, puts cheer in their voices to keep you from sensing their anguish. No one talks about death. No one talks about the end. 

Your children are stuck waiting, anticipating, expecting the hurt to be dragged on through the months of doing everything one last time, knowing it, and holding off on expressing the pain.

Because once you’re gone, they’ll only have pain left: hope will  leave with you. Then they can mourn and let loose and grieve. You won’t be there to see it and that’s okay. You know it’s coming anyway.

Cancer’s a motherfucker.

3 months to live

What would you do with 3 months to live? If you only had three months left of your time on this earth, what would be essential for you to accomplish in such a short time?

Would you travel? Finish that book you started (the one you’re writing, not reading)? Would you sell all your stuff and move to Florida? Would you write letters to all your loved ones? Would you run naked in the street just because no one would press charges against the lady with the deadly cancer? Would you rob a bank ’cause you wouldn’t be around for sentencing? Would you buy an expensive car with your life savings ’cause your kids will be able to sell it after you die anyways? 

Would you think of all the things you’ll miss? Like your grandchildren’s proms, and weddings? That movie you wanted to see that will only come out next year, after you’re gone? The ending to the Vampire Diaries? The next book of your favourite series? Knowing what your grandkids want to do when they grow up? Organise a last Christmas celebration, fuck whatever date it is?

Would you cry and rage and curse fate for throwing such a fucking wrench in your gear? Would you rant and cry about the injustice of it all? Would you wonder ‘why me’? Would you think back on your life to see what you did to deserve this?

Would you tell your children you love them everyday until you can’t anymore? Would you touch your spouse every chance you get? Would you make love more? Would you stay in bed and make cookie crumbs? Would you have a fling? Would you have a threesome? Would you finally tell that person (you know who) what you really thought of them? Would you write to your old boss to give him shit? Would you contact ‘the one that got away’? 

Would you make your funeral arrangements? Would you put all your affairs in order? Would you make a will? Would you start giving away your stuff to make sure it goes to whomever you want it to go to? 

Would you make a list of things that you never got a chance to do and burn it? Would you make peace with yourself? With others? Would you ask for forgiveness while you still have the chance? Would you make a list of regrets and burn that too? 

Would you be grateful to live up to four months? If so, would you regret cashing in your RRSP’s and buying that stupid car? 

I hope my mom gets to do everything she wants to do with the months left in her life,whether it’s 3, 6, 9 or 12. And I hope she dies of a quick and painless heart attack, right before the cancer wins.