Tag Archives: wish

Bucket list

In no particular order:

1. Sing “Islands in the Stream” on karaoke with one or a combination of Misteur Valaire.

2. Dance a slow with my husband in a public place, like a disco or something (instead of the kitchen for once).

3. Go to Italy.

4. Learn to play the piano again.

5. Sing a blues song while my husband is playing the guitar. Either a song we’ll write together or another one. There are so many songs I hear that I wish I could sing to him. 

6. Publish a book.

7. Write letters to my kids. 

Funny how some of these are singing and dancing. You’d think I’d have had time in my life to dance enough but no. And I don’t sing. Well, I think I can carry a tune but have absolutely no confidence in myself to go for it. I know the guys in Misteur Valaire wouldn’t mind if I sang off key with them because they’re just the nicest bunch of guys you could meet, but singing with my husband surprisingly stresses me more. It’s also less likely to happen than singing with Misteur Valaire and that’ll happen when pigs fly, so I should be alright.

As for dancing a slow with my husband, I’ve always said and will say again: if I could change one thing about him, it would not be the way he farts from just drinking water (let alone consuming any type of food), the way he has absolutely no tact sometimes and will say whatever comes to mind without any filter, or that he is the only person who doesn’t laugh easily at my jokes. It would be that he doesn’t dance. I cannot tell you how much I would pay, even sell myself, to have a fairy godmother or even a mediocre witch wave a wand or cast a spell to make this guy want to dance. 


Oh well. I sometimes have strange, vivid dreams. You never know, maybe one of them will be us dancing together. I can only wish.

8. Get over the fact that my husband will never dance with me.


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.