Today my calendar is marked simply as "MRI Day."
It's been eight years since Steve and I stood in a darkened radiology room and stared, dumbfounded, at an image of Steve's brain marked by a mysterious spot. It would take weeks before we knew that the spot was an inoperable, incurable grade IV glioblastoma -- but in that moment, as we tried to process what we saw and what doctors were telling us, as we held hands and thought of our 6-year-old and 2-year-old at home, we knew that life had totally and completely changed.
I leave MRI Day on my calendar because I don't want to forget that our journeys can change suddenly, without warning, without our consent.
I don't want to forget that we don't always have time to wait -- to say "I love you" or "I'm sorry," to travel, to discover, to experience, to explore.
I don't want to forget that there is so much in life we can't control -- but we can control our reaction. We can invest in relationships. We can turn over our deepest fears to God. We can find silver linings and unexpected blessings in the most dire circumstances.
It's been eight years since a community rallied and blanketed us with love. It still takes my breath away.
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| November 2015 photo by Janet Wisner |
