I'm Afraid It's Terminal

When do you announce that something is terminal? It's a sticky situation. You could announce it at the start, but terminal cases never start out terminal, first they are merely a swelling, an asymmetrical blotch, a minor nuisance that needs to be biopsied first, we'll call you when we know more. And even after the diagnosis is made, the prognosis is never really clear. It could respond to this treatment, but if not we can always try something else, and after that there's always something experimental that might work. And you fight and shift and and suddenly, before there's even the chance to catch your breath, the prognosis comes to you in the middle of the night, not in a doctor's sure and steady voice as you had hoped but in the silent and irrefutable feeling that seeps through your gut like ice cold water, "This is going to kill me." Now it's simply awkward, because the rest of the world has yet to hear the news, since you have been so busy as of late doling out medications and trying your best to fight this darned thing, and things actually looked a bit promising here and there but now this. Some friends have suspected, of course, by the gauntness of your face, but only the ones who are kind enough to take a second look, certainly not the ones who say, "How ARE you?" and have already moved on to the next person as you are just inhaling to answer. To everyone else it comes as a shock and they actually have the gall to be offended that they are latecomers to this exciting bit of news, as if people shave their heads and wear brightly colored handkerchiefs everyday to disguise their chemotherapy. And you are forced into explaining over and over how it kind of sneaked up on you and they should not feel bad for missing what were obvious signs to those few who took the time to notice. But this doesn't really change a thing and the fact is that the world is going to continue to turn whether not you are lying in a puddle hemorrhaging on the floor and whether it is over in 3 days or 3 months. But still, what a relief to finally pull yourself up and rip off the oxygen mask long enough to say, "Yes! Yes, I am dying, thanks for noticing."

39 Going on 11

The Big Four Oh is fast approaching and a few folks have asked me how I'm doing, as if it's expected that something as simple as a birthday will inevitably propel me headlong into a midlife crisis.

The truth is, I don't believe in numbers.  As far as age is concerned, anyway.

Just ask my grandmother, a wonderful, weathered woman who has experienced her share of joy and misery over the past 92 years.  She tells me she is constantly surprised by the old woman who stares back at her from the mirror each morning.  She knows in her mind she's 92, but the number never resonates with her spirit.

My daughters will tell you the same thing.  Every year on their birthday I ask them a number of questions and record the answers in their baby books.  What is your favorite toy?  Your favorite song?  If you were to get a tattoo today, what would it be?  (A great tool for teaching your children why lifelong decisions should be approached cautiously, by the way, as every year we get a good laugh when the girls sigh in relief that their 4-year-old dream of Dora the Explorer isn't permanently etched on their lower back.)  And most importantly, How does it feel to be ___ years old?

The answers are telling: "It feels the same," being the most common.  We've gotten, "It feels taller," and a very angry 4-year-old once retorted, "I'm four years YOUNG, not four years OLD!"

At 39 and three quarters, I concur.  Every birthday I have wondered to myself when I will finally feel grown up, mature, wise and capable.  Every year comes and goes and I am still the same person, only with a few more wrinkles and gray hairs. 

Conclusion?  My body is most definitely growing older, but my spirit can't be measured in years.  It's the most practical evidence for eternal life that I have come across so far -- my spirit was made to last forever, and an eternity of living with no end needs no number.

It also means that I only feel older on the outside, not the inside.  Inside, I'm just Sarah Perry DelliGatti, no age assignment required.  I haven't grown out of my childish fears or my adolescent anxieties -- both continue to require liberal doses of prayer and faith.  Experience and wisdom have certainly had their impact, but I don't feel like I've reached some miraculous growing up point where I'm finally capable of handling everything life throws at me.  There are days I'm fully competent and days where I toddle to the foot of the cross in full awareness of my dependence on Abba Father.  And He would have it no other way.

No obsessing over what is gradually sliding south or the laugh lines that are being etched into my face with every smile and frown.  No worries that I haven't yet "made it" in light of the world's standards of success for a woman my age.  Only the shell of a woman hiding the spirit of a little girl who comes to her Heavenly Father as He desires, with the faith of a child. 

So bring it on, Forty!  Someday I will slip this skin and start counting centuries with my Savior!

Blame It On Phil Donahue

I blame Phil Donahue.  After centuries of going to experts for the answers, Phil is purportedly the first person to shove a microphone into Joe Plumber's face and say, "But what do you think?"  The experts on stage squirm in their seats, mentally calculating whether the cost of their PhDs were worth it, when Joe Schmoe is allowed to chime in with all the machismo of a guy who earned his GED at age 22.

And so it begins, the downward slide, until so many bored stay-at-home moms are blogging, all the while complaining that their houses are a mess and there's never enough time to get the clean laundry put away.

Guilty as charged.  Except that I'm no longer a stay-at-home mom, now I'm juggling a 30 hour a week job, a total of 5 kids counting the Korean exchange students who are packed like sardines into my home, and with all the aforementioned laundry piling up so that my family thinks laundry baskets are plastic dressers that come in pretty colors.

I'll be honest:  I am not an expert.  I'm like every other person in Phil Donahue's audience, busy with my life but still filled with thoughts and opinions that probably matter squat to every viewer sitting at home.  Except that I love to write.  Love to write.  And love to ponder, wonder, question and pray -- and make the presumptuous assumption that my conclusions are worth sharing.  Some might be, and at other times I'll probably be the idiot who grabs the mic from Phil and stammers out a bunch of hooey that leaves the viewing audience begging for a return to the PhD on stage.  That's okay.  It's still nice to hold the mic every once in awhile, even if no one is listening.  At the very least it's a place to vent, and maybe someone will be encouraged in the process.