Take, for instance, the car thing. Consolidating two cars into one bigger car. A great idea for meeting today's needs. I fully supported the decision, and still do. But I started to feel a little shudder at the idea that this might be an arrangement for the long-term, and not just for that initial "don't drive for a year" thing. No more "Mom-mobile". The drivers' side door in the new "Family car" seems permanently closed to me. (Let's just hope that it's not.)
Also, I recently had a phone conversation with one of my doctors from my "B.C." (before cancer) days. The conversation was nice and very helpful in answering some questions that I had, but I also had a sense that this might be a "goodbye" conversation. It's not likely that I will ever be needing obstetric care or menopause coaching, unless a really, really, REALLY big miracle happens (but okay, we'll say hope still springs eternal). Preventive screenings are not really a priority, and may possibly be altogether moot, considering my immediate medical situation. This was a very kind physician AND his amazing, caring staff who helped me ride through nearly nine years of life, and now maybe the time has come for them to move my file to the archive (wherever deceased or otherwise terminated patient files go) and close a door. The thought makes me shudder again. And I will miss them all. I owe each of them a "thank you".
I don't want doors closing. I'm not giving up on my life. I want that energizing feeling of life in its fight to continue opening doors of possibility. (Maybe I just need to pull on my clogging shoes and dance again!). I mean, in all honesty, I have always bristled when a chance passes by - no matter how unimportant or unrealistic. Like when I turned 24 and thought, "Oh, darn - now I'm too old to try out for Miss America," even though it was such a dumb idea, because: 1) I was a "Mrs.", not a "Miss", and 2) at that time, my clogging shoes had been dormant long enough for me to develop a very NON-Miss America body. So that silly way of reacting has only been exacerbated by the additional "shudder factor" of being a cancer patient with a lousy prognosis.
Fortunately, the thought of doors closing reminded me of Donny Osmond (who happened to be the object of a crush when I was 10) singing "Close Every Door" from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. It gave me some comfort with its great message about trusting in the Lord, even under awful circumstances:
Close every door to me, hide all the world from me,
Bar all the windows and shut out the light.
Do what you want with me, hate me and laugh at me.
Darken my daytime, and toture my night.
If my life were important, I would ask, "Will I live or die?"
But I know the answers lie far from this world.
Close every door to me, keep those I love from me.
Children of Israel are never alone.
For I know I shall find my own peace of mind, for I have been promised a land of my own.
Just give me a number instead of my name,
Forget all about me and let me decay.
I do not matter, I'm only one person.
Destroy me completely, then throw me away.
If my life were important, I would ask, "Will I live or die?"
But I know the answers lie far from this world.
Close every door to me, keep those I love from me.
Children of Israel are never alone.
For we know we shall find our own peace of mind, for we have been promised a land of our own.
I guess I just need to cling to these words, and ponder the promises that I am entitled to. (As one of a covenant people, I have received many promises from the Lord.) Maybe if I do that, I can fret less about doors closing, and focus more on windows opening.
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