For whatever reason, I’ve been thinking a lot about my brush with death lately. I don’t remember most of it, and my memories in general have been significantly worse over the past year (because of anesesia, medications, morphine, brain mets, trauma, or all of the above). Tonight, I went through my Facebook timeline and read (or really, re-read) all the comments. Not only do I not remember reading the comments, but I don’t remember much of I wrote myself, even on this here blog. I’ve had people tell me it’s hard to believe that I don’t remember so much of what happened because I seemed so present in the moment at the time. I have no doubt that I was really and truly ME in those moments, but my brain decided not to record them for all time, for whatever reason (I’m going with morphine for much of it).
Originally, I had wanted people here and on Facebook to send me emails of their own memories of that time, what they were thinking and feeling, but after literally sobbing through each and every comment, I’m no longer sure that’s what I want. It was simultaneously beautiful and heartbreaking to read people’s goodbyes to me, especially since I lived (hooray!). Of course, it was also wonderful to read how happy everyone was when I DID make it out of hospice, but I think maybe I’m glad I don’t remember much of those dark days.
The other day, my dad told me the story of how on the very worst of the days, everyone had given up hope for me, except for Peter. He never, ever lost faith in me, even when my doc felt it was hopeless, and he is the reason that I am here today, with PET scans looking better than they have any right to be. I’ve always loved him, from the moment I saw him starting a recycling program in our dorm, but our love has grown so immeasurably through all of this horror. He has always been my rock (his parents did an excellent job naming him; read up on your Bible if you don’t know the story of Peter), and he continues to prove his love and devotion over and over and over. I truly don’t know what I did to deserve him.
Going back to the idea of memories and reflecting… It’s a little weird sometimes to be living to make memories when my brain is doing such a bad job of recording things. That’s why I’m trying to be better about writing here, and trying to take lots of pictures of things we do too. It’s kind of fun, in a weird, out-of-body way, to read things that I wrote myself, and yet have no memory of writing. It’s the same feeling when friends tell me stories of when they visited me in the hospital or in hospice. It literally feels like they are telling me a story about something that happened to someone else because I just can’t remember a thing.
So if you have a story you want me to hear about when I was in the hospital or hospice, even if you think I remember, feel free to leave a comment, write an email or get in touch in some manner and I’ll try not to cry too hard as I read 🙂