As I worked my way to the check-out cubicle at my oncology office yesterday, I carried with me the small stack of paperwork my doctor had handed me. There was a sheet denoting all my charges -- of course. There were orders for a mammogram and MRI. There was a summary of sorts about my visit. I handed each of these papers to the woman eagerly awaiting receipt of my money -- but before I let them leave my hands, I noticed a check mark on one of the papers. It was located right next to words: No cancer present, in remission. There were other words -- like cancer recurrence -- where my check mark could have landed. But it didn't. I ended up just where I want it be, just where I want it to stay. A simple check mark brightened my day. It's not that I thought my cancer had returned. It's just that my every-three-month check-ups open the door for this possibility. I go to these appointments for a reason -- to identify cancer's current role in my life -- and so there's always a chance something will be discovered. But not today.
No cancer present, in remission. These are five of the most beautiful words ever written about me.
I was present for death only one time in my 36 years of life. I consider this both a bad and a good thing. It's bad because I did not want my grandmother to die -- and watching it happen made it so real, so vivid, so painful. I don't think I would have ever chosen to watch my grandma die -- to watch her slip from consciousness to coma, to observe her altered body once death arrived, to witness the movement of her body on a stretcher as it was wheeled out of the house from the bedroom I still see every time I visit my mom's house. But I think I am lucky really -- and this is the good part -- because I got to be with her during her final moments. I got to watch her body as it lay still, peaceful and calm and still breathing. I got to talk to her and although she could not respond, I believe she could hear my words. And it makes me happy to know my grandma may have known I was with just prior to her flight to heaven. And after her flight, I got to touch her cool hands. I got to feel the power of the passing of one life -- a long life -- and I got to feel the comfort of a death that was not ugly or painful or difficult. It was sad -- it's still sad -- that my grandma died three years ago. But what a privilege it was to be part of the day she left this world.
