Believe

I know you are scared. I am, too. I know there’s a part of you that can’t believe this is happening. Maybe there’s an even bigger part of you that  knows it’s happening, but doesn’t want to believe it. That’s how it is for me. I know it’s happening. I’ve been to every single appointment with you. I’ve talked to all the doctors. I’ve read the reports and seen the images. I can lay everything out in front of me and look at it, piece by piece, from the very beginning. There’s no doubt that this IS happening. But that doesn’t mean I want to believe it. I don’t. I don’t want to believe any of it.

I want to believe that you don’t have cancer. I want to believe you are perfectly fine and healthy and strong and as far away from any illness anyone could ever be. I want to believe that the big black spot...that thing...on those ultrasound pictures isn’t there anymore. I want to believe it was all a big mistake... or a really bad dream... or a story I read... or a made-for-television movie I watched on a Saturday afternoon when I was bored.

I want to believe that we are going to be together for a really, really.....really long time. I want to believe that we are going to spend sunny days together, playing with our grandchildren. We can build sand castles with them on the beach, have a picnic at the park, and take turns pushing them on the swings. I want to believe we can show them how much fun it is to take off your shoes and socks and run outside in the middle of a really big downpour. (Remember when we did that...when we danced outside in the pouring rain  and splashed in the puddles with our cold, bare feet?) I want to believe that we will cuddle  up with them by the fireplace and rock them to sleep and drink in the sweet scents of baby skin and warm cocoa and fresh rain...all mixed together.

I want to believe that we will cook up many more big pots of pasta and have lots of “fights” over whether or not to put oregano in the sauce. I want to believe that our children and grandchildren will sit around our table, year after year, for holidays and birthdays and just-because-days and laugh and eat and talk, all at the same time. I want to believe our home will be filled with enough life and laughter and love to keep us deliriously happy.

I want to believe that we will take that cruise to Alaska one year, then sail through the Mediterranean the next. I want to believe you’ll be sitting right across from me, sipping on a glass of wine, as we watch the sun go down over an Italian vineyard. I want to believe we will sleep with the window open and hear the waves wash up upon the Sicilian shore in the little town where my grandparents were born. I want to believe we will go to all the places we’ve imagined and do all the things we’ve dreamed of doing....and then some we’ve thought we never would.

I want to believe that nothing will ever take you away from me. I want to believe that no matter what happens around us, you will always be right here, next to me. I want to believe that your smile will always be the last thing I see before I close my eyes each night and the first thing I see when I open them each morning. I want to believe I will never have to miss looking into your eyes and seeing into your soul. I want to believe that I will never have to know the emptiness of life without you.

I so want to believe all these things, with all my heart. I want to be just like Dorothy, in The Wizard of Oz, and believe making you well is as simple as clicking my heels together three times and repeating an incantation....Because right now, nothing feels right, or safe, or believable the way it used to. I want to believe everything can feel just like home again.

Yes, it’s true that I don’t want to believe you have cancer. But, even more, I do want to believe that you will beat it... and so, I will. I will believe you’ll  beat it. I will believe you’ll get well. I will believe you’ll be healed. And I will believe we’ll do and see and feel all the things we’ve dreamed of. Because I believe in miracles....and I know you do, too.