Little Wonders

Last night was a tough one. I woke up around 3:45, sore on my front side, and after taking my Advil, I couldn't get back to sleep. It was awful. Despite my very own written words of just this week about optimism and my inner fighter, I was paralyzed with fear. Before my diagnosis, I'd never been so scared that I could literally feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. But that's happened several times of late, and it happened last night.

The source of my terror was as clear as the shape of the ceiling fan that I examined for hours -- it was the chemotherapy that I will begin the week after next. At first, I thought of chemo as the relatively easy part that would follow the part that terrified me the most -- the surgery that would reveal how far the evil cancer had invaded my body. But now that the surgery is passed, I'm face to face with chemotherapy, and it no longer feels like an easy part of anything. The reality of it hit me this morning, and it hit me hard. 

Early morning bouts of terror fueled many of my past entries. But this morning, even my blog couldn't help. I was so frightened of life and of death, I couldn't even get up out of my chair to get my laptop. 

After tossing and turning for over an hour (in a purely metaphoric way, since I still can't come close to physically tossing and turning), I reached for my phone which was close by. I decided I would respond to an incredible email I had received the day before from a most thoughtful and reflective husband and father who also lives in Canton (let's call him "Jim," since I hate to make private conversations public without permission). 

In his email, which meant more to me that I could ever express, Jim told me about the song, "Little Wonders," by Rob Thomas. Jim copied the lyrics into the email for me (see below), and I immediately fell in love with the message of the song. 

"Little Wonders" by Rob Thomas

Let it go,

Let it roll right off your shoulder

Don't you know

The hardest part is over

Let it in,

Let your clarity define you

In the end

We will only just remember how it feels

Our lives are made

In these small hours

These little wonders,

These twists & turns of fate

Time falls away,

But these small hours,

These small hours still remain

Let it slide,

Let your troubles fall behind you

Let it shine

Until you feel it all around you

And I don't mind

If it's me you need to turn to

We'll get by,

It's the heart that really matters in the end

Our lives are made

In these small hours

These little wonders,

These twists & turns of fate

Time falls away,

But these small hours,

These small hours still remain

All of my regret

Will wash away somehow

But I cannot forget

The way I feel right now

In these small hours

These little wonders

These twists & turns of fate

These twists & turns of fate

Time falls away but these small hours

These small hours, still remain,

Still remain

These little wonders

These twists & turns of fate

Time falls away

But these small hours

These little wonders still remain

"The hardest part is over." "Let your clarity define you." "In the end we will only just remember how it feels." These words resonated in my core. 

Jim also identified the real key to this song (in a much more eloquent way than I ever could) -- that the most cherished parts of life, those "little wonders," are made in the "small hours," not the grand ones. 

I thought about this song a lot today -- as I watched Teddy run in circles at his youth soccer practice, as I watched Annabel flip around on the bouncy house at the fabulous Ricky Shannon Field Day, as I watched my neighbors all gather for our annual block party, and, at bedtime, as I heard Annabel start to learn to count (you say "one," she says "two"; you say "eight," she says "nine-ten"). I enjoyed these small hours with all of my heart. So much, it hurt. 

In the end, I will only just remember how terrified I felt early this morning. But the small hours of today, those little wonders, will still remain. Thank you, Jim, for making that all so clear to me. And for reminding me to let my clarity, not my times of fear and angst and confusion, define me.