Her Finish Line

I can picture myself in the hospital room with her.

I can picture her sitting there, looking a bit drained as she thinks about the road she’s had to travel on to get to this moment, but also with a smile on her face, as this chapter in her life is nearing its end. She projects a sense of pride for having pushed through. She fought the fatigue, she battled the nausea, and she enhanced her emotional & physical endurance.

She may lay her head back on the chair or bed she’s in and close her eyes, trying her best to relax. And however successful she may be at accomplishing that, she will also be ready to leave when it’s done, and not waste time locating the nearest Exit so she can travel back home, away from the sterile white walls.

While we’re there, I can picture myself kneeling down and taking shots below her; standing on a chair and taking shots above her; sitting beside her and taking shots with her. I can see myself holding the camera up as we both make goofy faces. I can picture asking one of the nurses to take a few photos of us together. I can also picture myself being nervous about them dropping my camera, but I will push that feeling down, and just make sure the neck strap is on securely.

Once we’re out of the hospital and surrounded by the familiar life that is her family, I can picture her in the kitchen making a snack for her son. I can picture her sitting on the couch reading a book to him afterwards. I can picture the two of them playing outside as her partner looks on smiling, and as her dog lays beside them, expressing his excitement that they are all together in his own way.

I will take photos of her doing day-to-day things. Some of those things will remain intact long after her body is cancer free. Others won’t.

She will still brush her teeth.
She won’t always brush her wig.

She will still put one foot in front of the other when she walks.
She won’t always do that on the way to chemo treatments.

She will still clean her house.
She won’t always lack the energy to finish.

She will still eat dinner.
She won’t always have graham crackers for it.

She once told me to process things hour by hour — Get through one before thinking about the next; deal with what you’re feeling in that moment, and wait for the rest until it’s in front of you.

She is strong.

Through our conversations, I can tell she’s never emotionally run away from this portion of her life, nor has she let her optimism get lost in the crowd.

She’s processed, accepted, and is running towards the rest of her life.

And she’s almost to her finish line.