the process

Earlier in the day I realized my odd sense of calm.
All week, particularly yesterday, I have been flooded with emotion. Perhaps no more than usual (and I have only been better at taking note of it), but flooded just the same. I catalogued the anxiety as it wrapped clammy hands around my intestines and throat, making my shirt collars feel suffocating. Took note of the brief tinges of worry I felt when allowing myself to consider the boy and his battle ahead. Bowed my head to the heartache, confusion and grief I have felt at the mercy of love, love witnessed and love lost. I have felt worry and shame. I have took note as vulnerability struck me and left me feeling helpless, a lump in my throat. I have reveled in such blinding joy. The kind that leaves you breathless, wordless... brings tears to the eyes. I have felt sublimely content and been surrounded by friends.

Though I did not speak it aloud, in my mind I lifted a glass in toast.
I have every assurance that Monday will be a great success, and I will be no worse for wear on Tuesday. But if tonight were to be my last night on earth... there is nowhere, no way I'd rather spend it. I have never been so happy. And I have no regrets.

As I enter my final day before surgery I take notice of the calm. The rain has ceased falling and my mind is a placid ocean once again. Unconcerned. Thoughtless. Feelings numbed but awareness intact.

I lay back and... for once... maybe the only time... I find it frightfully easy to think about nothing. I breathe as my eyes shift, taking in the room. The calm is surprising. Welcome. Comforting.

God willing it will last another 31 hours.