Thursday, November 27th, 2014
Thanksgiving. This holiday is tied with Christmas as my favorite.
And why wouldn’t it be? It’s comprised of my favorite things: Fall weather replete with crispy, warm-hued leaves; a cool, gentle air, often accompanied by grey skies that instill a sense of calm; The full roster of my favorite humans, both family and friends; a delicious cornucopia of libations; and a snack and dinner spread that could rival any master chef’s. What more could you ask for? Nothing. Well, not usually.
This specific Thanksgiving hurt. My heart was broken – I had freshly boarded the heartbreak train but 16 days prior – and I was having a hard time being present and finding happy. I was additionally stressed about finals as I was trying to successfully close out my second-to-last semester of college, with an 18 credit workload, all the while putting in a solid 50 hours of work/week in between five jobs. I was vying for “Honors Status” and was trying desperately to “keep my eye on the prize” although it was difficult to see anything clearly.
My heart was shattered, I was exhausted, and I just desperately wanted to lie in bed and watch cheesy Christmas movies on the Hallmark Channel… Ordering Chinese, drinking wine, and watching sappy holiday-inspired love stories sounded like tortured bliss….
But alas! I rolled my ass out of bed, made some dynamite side dishes, showered and made my way to my sister’s house to bathe in love, laughter, and conversation. And wine. A lot of wine.
As we were wrapping up Thanksgiving dinner, pre-tryptophan coma, my mom told my sister and I, “Girls, I found a lump….”
“HAVE YOU CALLED THE DOCTOR?!”
We flooded the kitchen with a plethora of other questions, us emphatically asking more, and more, and more, and more.
“It’s in my right breast. I don’t think it’s anything,” replied mom.
“Um okay, have you confirmed this with a doctor?!” I asked.
“Yeah, I mean, I will call them, tomorrow,” she answered.
And as we sat for the next 30 minutes, in shock, asking more and trying desperately for her to realize the serious nature of what we could be facing, we begged her to call the doctor.
She left shortly after that, as she had to get my grandma back home, and my sister and I sat in the kitchen – her with a Jameson neat and me with a Cabernet – talking about the potential severity of the situation and how we planned to be on her about it until we knew she made and went to “that appointment”.
The month following this news, I checked in daily, “Have you called? When is your appointment? I will go with you.”
“Yes, I will call, tomorrow.”
And then another month passed, finals were done, Christmas had come and gone, a new year was upon us, and I had stopped asking.
Why? I don’t know.
What I do know is that “tomorrow” isn’t good enough and it most definitely isn’t promised.