I was coping somewhat well with my husband being on chemo this weekend, especially because he got the latest results of his CT scans, which showed that his various cancers are shrinking or stable. At the very least, he doesn’t have to go back on Oxaliplatin yet, which was the chemo drug that caused severe cold sensitivity and neuropathy when he took it before.
Amy made some off-handed comment about wanting a tasteful religious artifact that we have in our living room. I asked if she wanted it now, and she said that she’d wait for the estate sale in 25 years to claim it instead.
I objected to the “25 years” figure because that doesn’t seem so far away, and she assured me that it was just a random number. I said something about how my husband was probably likely to go first and she once again took me to task about that.
She thinks that I’m too pessimistic about my husband’s long-term survival. I get that and I recognize that it’s probably part of her coping strategy.
But still, it’s had me in kind of a funk ever since she said that.
It’s not bad enough that my husband has a terminal illness. Maybe I should be worrying more about my own survival, too?
There’s nothing to indicate that my lifespan will be significantly shortened by my illnesses. At the same time, though, no one really knows that they won’t be, either.
My husband had to sleep most of the day yesterday to recover from the marathon day we had on Thursday to celebrate my youngest son’s graduation with my husband’s sister. Then he had to go to work like usual Friday and the cumulative effects just really kicked his ass.
At the same time, I also slept most of yesterday. The effects of the graduation marathon, followed up by waking up earlier than usual on Friday to take Adam to a laser hair removal appointment really kicked my ass, too.
I know it’s not normal to have one really busy day require a full day of sleep to make up for it. Maybe this is a strong sign that my health isn’t very good either. I tend to view it as just my normal, even though it really is anything but normal.
At the same time, to think that I could very well be dead in 25 years seems so soon. My own parents are still alive at 65 and 72. I’m 47 and if I’m already dead by 72, that means I won’t have even lived as long as my dad. My parents could actually outlive me.
I know these are all thoughts that my husband has already wrestled with and faced. I thought that was tragic enough. But maybe there’s no guarantee that I’ll live much longer than he does, and I completely haven’t come to terms with that at all.