Several weeks ago, my sisters and I and my parents planned holiday dates for the Kroontje Thanksgiving and Christmas gatherings.
While we were busy entering the dates into our smartphones, Mom made an off-hand remark that stopped us mid-text.
“It’s a blessing to be able to plan for the future,” she said, returning her calendar to its nail in the kitchen wall.
It took us awhile for the observation to register.
She clarified. “Last year at this time, I didn’t know if I’d be here for another Thanksgiving.”
It was one of those perspectives made possible by a terminal illness.
Mom has brain cancer, the kind that can kill in a matter of months.
Last year at this time, she was recovering from brain surgery and enduring aggressive treatments — with no real guarantee of a positive outcome.
We thought she handled it with amazing strength and grace. She called it God’s grace.
With each successful treatment protocol, we gained hope, but we lived in the moment.
And we lived the precious moments, such as those spent together as a family, more deeply. And we made a point to get together more frequently, in case there wouldn’t be another chance.
We hated cancer, but we saw the benefits of living as if there’s no tomorrow.
Then this spring we were finally able to exhale.
Brain images showed appropriate healing where the tumor was removed, and there appeared to be no new cancer activity elsewhere.
We cried. We hugged. We thanked God.
The kind of brain cancer Mom has — glioblastoma — comes back, and we don’t know when or what part of the brain it will attack next.
So each clear MRI (every three months) is another victory.
During a recent family gathering, Mom said she retrieved her electric blanket from the closet and distinctly recalled putting it away last spring. “I wasn’t sure I’d be around to use it again,” she said.
It reminds me that Grandma (Mom's mom) used to say “Lord willing …” about future plans.
We would finish harvest Lord willing. Or, we’d all be together for Christmas, Lord willing.
Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed for anyone, young or old, sick or healthy. But when you’re 70 with cancer, you’re more aware of this fact.
Mom’s cell phone needed replacing last summer (not long after her surgery), and she lamented the two-year contract. “What if I don’t make it that long?” she said.
At the time I didn’t have an answer, but when I later told Matt, he was quick to say, “What if you or I — or anyone, for that matter, don’t make it that long? You still sign the contract.”
We don’t stop living, just because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. But living each day as if it’s our last reminds us to live more gratefully and to plan a future more hopefully.
… Lord willing.