‘And Miles to Go Before I Sleep’ : What do we have left to do? What will we miss? What is important? Some thoughts ondeath and life.

I might have cancer.

Last month came the pain in my lower left side, different from too many stomach crunches or a reaction to the lactose content of a scoop of frozen yogurt. I did the responsible thing by calling my doctor, who confirmed the existence of “left lower quadrant adnexa-area tenderness on palpation” and referred me to a lab for an ultrasound and to a specialist who will, hopefully, “r/o ovarian CA.” From appointment to appointment, I am aware of the refrain: I might have cancer. The trepidation chokes.

But since I have a life and not merely the possibility of cancer, I have to prepare my classes, do my laundry, have conferences with students and work on my scholarship. In certain microseconds, when fear overwhelms rational thought, I talk with people who love me and sustain me. My patient and worried husband, my ebullient and optimistic daughter, a rational friend who had cancer. Sometimes, I announce my fear; other times, I blather on about every other thing. They assure me that things will be fine, that this is probably a non-cancerous growth of the sort I’ve had removed before. I hope they are right, because I am just not ready to die.

But how will we know when we are ready? Not in the sense of being prepared to meet whatever eternity we believe in, but ready to leave life. We think about being ready in the breach, when something reminds us that life is not of infinite duration. Like painful, non-specific growths or the death of someone close to our own age. Otherwise, we’re always in the middle of something, always looking for new challenges and projects, secure in our expectation that we will succeed or see the project through. But if the ultrasound and the consultation lead to the conclusion that I have cancer, if the cancer is untreatable and my time to live is finite, I will have to get ready. To stave off the panic of not knowing, I made some plans for getting ready.

First, call all my friends and loyal supporters and thank them for being in my life. Finish short stories I’ve drafted, started or thought about, in exactly the way I originally envisioned them, without worrying about the probability that they will not be published. Ask my daughter about grandchildren and my husband about a sports car. Buy something orange, a color I have long wondered if I could wear successfully. Record a song in the acoustic miracle of the shower. Put the photos in the albums, polish all the silver earrings, listen to every vinyl album I own one more time. As long as the eyes hold out, read a book a night: mysteries, Dickens, Morrison, Faulkner.

Neither travel to the Riviera nor a cruise to the South Pacific figure in my plans. Having not considered either previously, I would not want to squander any remaining time. For that matter, I will not try for the 11th time to learn to swim. The goal is to squeeze in as many highs as I can to counteract the ultimate low that I may be facing.

Instead of a funeral, a final party! I want to be there, to return hugs and let folks know that I will miss them, too. Everyone I love will be invited and asked to wear something of theirs that I admired. A tie, that cap at just that angle, a necklace, the color red, the scent of musk, mauve lipstick. The party will go on all night and into the next day. Let Aretha spell out what she wants, turn up the volume as Patti LaBelle asks “Isn’t it a shame?” Sing along with Gladys Knight as she leaves on that midnight train.

While this planning made me smile and bore me from test to consultation to more testing, it also reminded me of something essential: I have a life, and I am enjoying most of it. It might be cancer or it might be a benign tumor. In any event, I live in an age of medical technology, in the middle of a life of relative plenty. If there is a growth that needs to be removed, it will be. I can assume access to the best treatment possible. These are luxuries of the highest order. When the fear and anxiety spun me in circles or turned my belly to water, I remembered how lucky I am. I’ve got an embarrassment of the riches of love, respect, good friends and self-awareness. I know what racism looks like and how to talk back to it, even if I don’t expect to eliminate it in whatever lifetime remains for me.

Maybe I am as ready as I am going to be. I love being alive. I regard all of it, the good, the weird and the ridiculous of my life, as important to my being. I think I would miss it all terribly, even the grocery shopping.

This is not a scare I would wish on anyone, all things being equal. But we could all use an occasional jolt to remind us of the full value of life. The thoughts that followed I might have cancer were that I have projects to finish, goals to accomplish, rudeness to address, dates to keep, classes to prepare to teach. I have the next breath to take. I will not give up on this life, even if I discover that I have to give it up.