Page 103 - Philly Girl

Philly Girl 87

Regrets and Insights

Once I thought that I would live to be 99 years old, like
Esther. Now, if I make it to 68, I will be the luckiest person
in the world of people with lung cancer—metastasized lung
cancer.
Everyone asks me if I am afraid or angry, or both. What
can I be angry at? My shitty bad luck? My genes, one wildly
out of control? No reason for that. I am purely and simply
sad.
Cancer feels like an uncontrollable alien, an animal out
of control within my body. I can’t reason with it to stop its
invasion. I can’t sweet-talk it into submission. I just have to
accept the time that I have and realize that life can change
on a dime, as it has for me.
I won’t get to see my beloved granddaughter Mila go to
kindergarten, read aloud by herself, tie her own shoelaces,
have her first boyfriend (or girlfriend), go to her first boy/girl
party. I won’t attend her high school graduation, or see her
in a prom dress.
I won’t see my son Jesse become the fully mature man
that he is becoming in his early thirties. Won’t watch him
ripen, become comfortable with his successes as a man, a
father, a husband, a son.
I know that I won’t see Sam get married, have children
of his own, come to me one day and empathize with how
difficult child rearing really is. I won’t be here when he learns
how demoralizing it can be to argue with a stubborn, obsti-
nate child, how it undermines your confidence as a parent.