Part five. Slowing down enough to truly see.

The nurses at the radiation department said cheerfully, “Congratulations, your last treatment is done.” Then they added, almost casually, “Just be aware that the tiredness may come now. Headaches too. And other side effects.”

I received the information carefully, as I had received so much of the information given to me these past weeks. But as I walked out of the hospital, I was full of energy. The same energy I had carried through that last week of treatment. A feeling that it would soon be over.

I almost jumped down the stairs from the hospital.

I went to work as usual. But it was not an ordinary day at work. It was an important day. And when I finally left the office that evening, I could feel it in my whole body.

I was tired.

The next day felt like a hangover. Not sick. Just emptied out somehow. I could feel emotions close to the surface. Not sadness. More a feeling that it would be nice to cry. To let something move through me and out.

Then the weekend came.

The tiredness arrived fully, as if a heavy mantle had been placed over my shoulders and my feet had been pushed into heavy boots. It was a deep tiredness. Thorough. Almost exhausting.

So I slowed down.

I sat.
I lay down.
I watched the trees outside grow greener and greener.

And I watched the wild cherry tree outside my window, covered in white blossoms.

Had it always been this full? This abundant?

I have watched that tree every spring for years. I love its blossoming. I dream of it during the winter. But this year felt different. Almost unreal in its beauty.

I lay on my bed watching it through the window.

Then I walked outside barefoot and lay down beneath it, looking up into the white flowers against the blue May sky. So beautiful. So strong. So fragile all at once.

The moss beneath me was soft and welcoming. ”Maybe tomorrow I will regain my energy,” I thought.

The next morning, the tiredness was even heavier. The mantle heavier. The boots heavier.

Again, the first thing I did was look at the cherry tree outside my window.

Still there. Still overflowing.

Again, I walked barefoot into the garden and lay down beneath it. A few petals loosened in the breeze and drifted slowly down through the air like snow.

Beautiful May snow made of cherry blossom petals.

And somewhere in the middle of all that tiredness, I realized something.

Although I have loved that tree every year, I don’t think I have ever truly allowed myself to stop and receive it the way I have this spring. Is it thanks to the heavy mantle and the heavy boots?

Normally, I would have admired it briefly and then continued with all the things that needed to be done. Life moving on at its usual speed.

But now it was different.

The tiredness made me stop. And in stopping, I noticed something I might otherwise have missed.

Not just the beauty of the blossoms, but their abundance. The magical abundance.

…

This is the fifth reflection in a series about receiving a diagnosis and learning to live with the unknown.