Giving Life and Accepting Death
January 04, 2010
Cancer Talk
Cancer Talk
Happy New Year!
Is it overly morbid to contemplate life and death during the festive season? Not if you believe the beginning of the year to be a fresh start, an end to past endeavours, winding up of the previous chapter, and an opportunity to start anew, reset our goals, reshape our perspectives.
On Boxing Day, amidst a scrumptious buffet of roasted meats, gigantic crustaceans, and endless pudding, the conversation touched upon only children, with the general consensus - including the only only child at the table - that children without siblings grew up lonely, with a tendency towards egocentricity. I was eager to chime in with my experience of dealing with the progeny of China's one-child policy, but when the still child-free ladies volunteered their preferences on how many children they would eventually like to bear and mother, I remained quiet.
Do I feel cancer has deprived me of motherhood? No, but my views have admittedly morphed, from strictly pro-choice to decidedly come-what-may. Certain aspects of my life are no longer about active decisions on my part, but really just dealing with the hand I've been dealt. Que sera, sera. I can barely plan beyond next month, let alone nine in a row! One part of my perspective on parenting that has clearly evolved: it's not just up to me to want a brood of boys (four!) not even one will happen if I am not presented the opportunity to bear and raise children with someone who fits the bill.
On the other end of the spectrum, in the very same last week of 2009, I was approached to be interviewed on an academic topic from the perspective of someone 'terminally ill'. I'm pretty confident that I defy the medical definition of meeting death sometime in the next 6 months, so my instinctive reaction was to reject the label. But it did spark further contemplation in me. I stood under the hot, streaming jet one morning, lathering hopeful conditioner onto my parched and dehydrated head of dessert fern strung of radiation-inspired uneven regrowth, and mused: Would I live longer if I didn't have cancer? Probably. What is terminal about my life at this point? Maybe the eggs in the fridge. Have I accepted death? Only as a fact of life. I've now examined life and death enough to understand that there is no random, nothing is really a co-inky dinky, and everything in good time. And even if I did have an appointment with death, I'll just be fashionably late. Don't they know who I am?
As we counted down the final seconds of the year, we rang in a fresh beginning more meaningful than just a new decade. One that winds down the innocence of young coupledom, one that buds the purest innocence of all. One with less late nights of drinking, more early mornings of warm bottles.
Here's to you, J & S, one of the very few couples I simply cannot wait to admire as parents.
Back to details of 'The "C" Word'
Is it overly morbid to contemplate life and death during the festive season? Not if you believe the beginning of the year to be a fresh start, an end to past endeavours, winding up of the previous chapter, and an opportunity to start anew, reset our goals, reshape our perspectives.
On Boxing Day, amidst a scrumptious buffet of roasted meats, gigantic crustaceans, and endless pudding, the conversation touched upon only children, with the general consensus - including the only only child at the table - that children without siblings grew up lonely, with a tendency towards egocentricity. I was eager to chime in with my experience of dealing with the progeny of China's one-child policy, but when the still child-free ladies volunteered their preferences on how many children they would eventually like to bear and mother, I remained quiet.
Do I feel cancer has deprived me of motherhood? No, but my views have admittedly morphed, from strictly pro-choice to decidedly come-what-may. Certain aspects of my life are no longer about active decisions on my part, but really just dealing with the hand I've been dealt. Que sera, sera. I can barely plan beyond next month, let alone nine in a row! One part of my perspective on parenting that has clearly evolved: it's not just up to me to want a brood of boys (four!) not even one will happen if I am not presented the opportunity to bear and raise children with someone who fits the bill.
On the other end of the spectrum, in the very same last week of 2009, I was approached to be interviewed on an academic topic from the perspective of someone 'terminally ill'. I'm pretty confident that I defy the medical definition of meeting death sometime in the next 6 months, so my instinctive reaction was to reject the label. But it did spark further contemplation in me. I stood under the hot, streaming jet one morning, lathering hopeful conditioner onto my parched and dehydrated head of dessert fern strung of radiation-inspired uneven regrowth, and mused: Would I live longer if I didn't have cancer? Probably. What is terminal about my life at this point? Maybe the eggs in the fridge. Have I accepted death? Only as a fact of life. I've now examined life and death enough to understand that there is no random, nothing is really a co-inky dinky, and everything in good time. And even if I did have an appointment with death, I'll just be fashionably late. Don't they know who I am?
As we counted down the final seconds of the year, we rang in a fresh beginning more meaningful than just a new decade. One that winds down the innocence of young coupledom, one that buds the purest innocence of all. One with less late nights of drinking, more early mornings of warm bottles.
Here's to you, J & S, one of the very few couples I simply cannot wait to admire as parents.
Back to details of 'The "C" Word'
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