differences

There are, most likely, some differences between you and me--namely, that I have a disease and hopefully, probably, you do not. It changes things, this cancer. A lot of well-meaning people (whom I adore) are quick to remind me that anyone can die at any time--right out of the clear blue--that tragedies hang around in secret places for everyone and fall upon them unpredictably. I know. But the spectral reality of the unforeseen and the wonders and disasters it may hold are vastly different from the palpable disease I've had twice now. This is no potential errant teenager texting a friend from behind the wheel while you head home, happy, from the farmers' market. This is a disease that has twice demonstrated its very real aggression, showing up after extensive surgery, chemotherapy, and daily medication. It necessitates a new response, in turn aggressive and persistent. It means that the future that unrolls before me is probably laden with more snags than yours, and it may well be shorter. I'm not being gloomy, I'm being realistic. This is true, and I have to parse out how best to hold that reality, to swallow and store it safely, because I have a life to live in the meantime.
I am certain that every person who has reminded me that we may all get hit by buses or swing through Colorado and pick up the plague has meant well, has not intended to diminish my experience. But those risks belong to everyone, collectively they are meted out in tiny doses and then carried, a little particle by everyone so that our measurements of the risk may remind us of their very smallness. Mine is a more precise risk that I have no choice but to possess all to myself, however much support and love you all provide. And it is lonely, achingly lonely in a way that squeezes my heart and leans on my stomach.
My math just isn't the same. And I'm glad for that, impossibly relieved that this sort of burden is not widely borne. I want you to be healthy with dependable longevity. I don't want you bulldozing the terrain by creating fears of your own; it feels dishonest, or at least, beside the point.