I return from a trip to Chicago, and realize that the Korean viburnum’s blooms came and went while I was gone. Three years ago, I planted this bush in our side yard. Its clusters of soft pink flowers resemble those of the Hoya, hanging in my dining room window, but with a much lighter, less syrup-like scent. I was only away four nights. How could I have missed the blooms? In Omaha, Nebraska, people like to say that we have one week of spring. The weather generally stays cold, or vacillates wildly from eight degrees to eighty, before settling abruptly into hot. The plants follow the weather’s lead. They bloom, leaf out, sprout all at once. The shift is almost violent.
My emotions are like a Nebraska spring. In early December last year, I learned that I had stage 2 breast cancer. A huge surprise, as I am otherwise very healthy. I exploded. The prognosis and treatment frightened me; I was angry that I’d been diagnosed when I work so hard to exercise and eat well; sad that I might not meet prospective grandchildren.
As I progressed through innumerable appointments and, many, often painful, tests, my mind flew like a terrified bird caught inside a convenience store, crashing into windows and merchandise in a frantic attempt to get out. But I couldn’t escape my circumstances. No amount of magical thinking would help me locate the door or calm my emotions. So I tried a different tactic.
I let myself feel. When I got angry, I felt it. Sometimes I yelled and screamed. Lying in bed before sleep, terrified that the next scan would turn up something new, I inhaled and exhaled, breathing through the fear. My emotions came in waves, like contractions. They doubled me over. Then they passed, leaving behind exhaustion, but also, space. An odd kind of vacant peace.
I kept it up. Through a double mastectomy and five weeks of radiation. I continue as I look toward years of drug therapy and its side effects.
My frantic mind hasn’t stopped. It’s still heaving itself against the walls of the local Casey’s mini-mart. But I’m less concerned about it than I used to be. Despite their strength, I’m also less concerned about the emotions. What interests me more is the gap, the space that opens between the end of one feeling and the beginning of another. The pause where even the mind quiets. Turns out, I can direct my attention there too. I can drag my lawn chair out amongst the debris left from the last hailstorm and have a seat. I can watch the clouds move quickly overhead, as they often do after a big storm. I can listen for when the birds start to sing again.
Today, I noticed the snowball bush, another kind of viburnum, planted at the corner of our front porch. It’s laden with green clusters of what will become the white globes that give the plant its nickname. Its blooms last several weeks. I’ll be here for them.
