My original goal here was to write at least one blog post per week. But I was busy watching season 2 of Stranger Things last week. And by week, I mean 3 days. Because how could you possibly take longer than 72 hours to watch it? If you have no clue what I’m talking about—I’m sorry, but if you haven’t watched Stranger Things, are you even living?
So. Why are you still here? Go. Watch. And then come back so we can fangirl together until our heads and hearts explode over how awesomely awesome that show is.
The past is in the past. Let it go.
With Halloween in our rearview, we are clipping along at a furious pace towards the holiday season—and I find myself glancing back at the contrasting landscape we found ourselves in a year ago. Because I am a well-adjusted individual who participates in healthy activities that foster self-love and contentment.
Things weren’t perfect last year. But they were blissfully far away from the shit show that is 2017.
Sometimes I like to hang out in that cobwebby corner of my mind, waiting for those memories to show up. Even if they come with switchblades in their pockets—my thoughts can be devilishly masochistic.
Sometimes I like to hang out in that cobwebby corner of my mind, waiting for those memories to show up. Even if they come with switchblades in their pockets—my thoughts can be devilishly masochistic.
A year ago, I was trying to get pregnant.
This year, we face the almost certain chance our daughter will be an only child.
A year ago, Paul was working a physically demanding full-time job.
This year, he’s working his haute couture cane down the driveway.
A year ago, my biggest health concern was shrinking a few haphazard zits along my jawline.
This year, shrinking a massive tumor in my breast took precedence.
Last summer, Paul had the stamina to rig up our toddler’s trailer and tug her behind his bike for hours.
This summer, our bikes didn’t leave the garage.
Last year, our weekly schedule revolved around Paul’s varying work hours.
This year, our weekly schedule involves a juggling act of 4 or more doctors' appointments.
This year, we face the almost certain chance our daughter will be an only child.
A year ago, Paul was working a physically demanding full-time job.
This year, he’s working his haute couture cane down the driveway.
A year ago, my biggest health concern was shrinking a few haphazard zits along my jawline.
This year, shrinking a massive tumor in my breast took precedence.
Last summer, Paul had the stamina to rig up our toddler’s trailer and tug her behind his bike for hours.
This summer, our bikes didn’t leave the garage.
Last year, our weekly schedule revolved around Paul’s varying work hours.
This year, our weekly schedule involves a juggling act of 4 or more doctors' appointments.
How many times during crisis mode do we say “I can’t wait for things to go back to normal?”
I used to say that all the time.
I can’t wait for Paul to finish chemo so he can stop being tired all the time.
I can’t wait until I finish treatment so I can just get on with my life.
I can’t wait until Ingrid is potty-trained so I can stop buying expensive diapers.
We just want things to be normal. When life gets turned inside-out, we protest and pine for the way things used to be. But what if there is no more normal? What if things are never going to go back to the way they used to be?
When my husband was first diagnosed with terminal cancer, I was really bad at this. I clung to our old version of normal, desperate to retrieve it. I convinced myself that things could eventually be reversed. Paul would be cured and go back to work and we’d have a bunch of kids and spend our summers rambling the West in a vintage caravan.
That was how we'd find happiness. By getting back to our own definition of normal. By getting back to our pre-cancer lives.
Here’s a fun, little reality check for you: our old normal has been obliterated. As in, it no longer exists. We will NEVER EVER EVER go back to the way things were.
That can be a tough pill to swallow.
Changing our perspective on acceptance
When my husband was first diagnosed with terminal cancer, I was really bad at this. I clung to our old version of normal, desperate to retrieve it. I convinced myself that things could eventually be reversed. Paul would be cured and go back to work and we’d have a bunch of kids and spend our summers rambling the West in a vintage caravan.
That was how we'd find happiness. By getting back to our own definition of normal. By getting back to our pre-cancer lives.
Here’s a fun, little reality check for you: our old normal has been obliterated. As in, it no longer exists. We will NEVER EVER EVER go back to the way things were.
That can be a tough pill to swallow.
Changing our perspective on acceptance
I recently read Paul Kalanithi’s memoir When Breath Becomes Air. Paul was a brilliant neurosurgeon who was diagnosed with terminal, metastatic lung cancer at the age of 36. The book, which he wrote during his final year of life, explores his quest to understand what makes life meaningful.
Following his diagnosis and depleting treatments, Paul continues to pursue his rigorous medical training in an attempt to maintain the normalcy of his life. But things couldn’t move in the same direction his healthy self had planned:
“As furiously as I had tried to resist it, I realized that cancer had changed the calculus. For the last several months, I had striven with every ounce to restore my life to its pre-cancer trajectory, trying to deny cancer any purchase on my life…[but] even when the cancer was in retreat, it cast long shadows.” - Paul KalanithiIt’s not about “giving up” or “letting cancer win.” It just is. It’s facts. It’s reality. Just as Kalanithi had to learn how to live with a new set of circumstances post-diagnosis, my family continues to adjust to our new normal. One we’re not particularly fond of, but one that we’re stuck with.
This happens to everyone: we’re thrust into new normals when we have children (5 AM becomes the new 9 AM.) It happens when we go through a divorce, when we move across the country, when we switch to night shift, when our favorite Korean diner goes bankrupt (oh, cruel world.)
Personally, our family’s new normal involves more ER visits and “why-do-I-even-pay-for-insurance” moments than I’d like. It involves more conversations on end-of-life care than I had anticipated as a newlywed. It comes with a lot more poking and prodding than my husband would prefer.
With time and practice and a healthy dollop of humility, I’ve come around to accepting my new normal. I still get wistful and cranky about it, sure. But my family doesn’t benefit from my bucking against circumstances that are out of my control.
For the record, accepting the way things are is not the same as “giving up” or becoming the proverbial wet blanket. Taking my reality for what it is and not demanding it be something it can't be—this isn’t an act of weakness or apathy or laziness.
It’s kind of brave to hold steady and look reality in the face.
It’s sort of a big deal to learn how to keep living with whatever version of normal life hands you.
Has life ever handed you a "New Normal"?
Were you about to accept your new circumstances gracefully, or was it a challenge to move forward?
Can you offer any advice to those who might be entering a drastically different season of life?
