One year ago, the seams of my world started to give way. The edges started to fray, and I was two months from hearing the scariest words I had ever heard in my life. “Your husband has rectal cancer”. My family and friends and our doctors and our brave kids got us through, and I grasped for everything that I saw as a potential help. I let go of the things that I couldn’t fit into a world of immediacy. And I held my shit together as much as I possibly could. Better than I had expected. Longer than I ever thought possible. I tried to cry only when it wouldn’t cause anyone else to cry. I put on a brave face. I took notes. I triaged our lives. And miraculously it worked. He got better, and we started to pick up the mess that was the life that had fallen away. But it took a toll. And now it is my turn to heal. My turn to let fall what no longer serves, pick up the shards that I would like to gently return to where they belong. It’s my turn to listen to another woman’s journey through spousal cancer and let the tears stream without wiping them away. It’s May turn to lay in a hot studio and let the words of a softly playing song speak directly to my heart. My turn to remember that I am more than this, so much more, and also just me, just a person. I am not a hero, I am not a saint, I am not a terrible person, I am not a martyr. I am just Kali. And one year after the seams began to pull apart, I am ready to heal and let go, even if the seams never quite stitch back up the same as they did before.
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