The Last Time

Do You Remember When?

Dear Diary,

At some point in their lives and in mine, I tucked each of my four kids into their beds for the last time. I’m certain they don’t remember it. I don’t either. It was one of those things that just happens, and when it happens for the last time, we can’t possibly know the significance of that particular tucking in. But my kids are 27, 25, 23, and 21 now. I won’t tuck them in again. I can say that with a great deal of certainty. 

When my sister celebrated her 58th birthday, she had no way of knowing it was her last. But by 59, she was gone, and I wore her ashes around my neck on her birthday. 

When you’re waiting for a diagnosis—is it a bone bruise or is it cancer?—these things tend to run through your mind. Have I played my last pickleball game? Have I made my last trip to see my kids in the PNC? Will I get to Colorado or Kentucky again? And what if I’ve seen my Hoosier family and friends for the last time?

It’s a bit morbid, yes, but it’s really an inevitability of life. When I saw my ortho doctor, he said he couldn’t cut into my knee to fix my meniscus until he was certain the lump wasn’t cancer. “If I open it up and it’s cancer, those cells will spread everywhere. Then it’s amputation or death.” Yes, he actually said that: “Amputation or death” as if I was the second coming of Patrick Henry.

“Give me amputation or give me death!”

I want to shout it at the top of my lungs periodically, but I think Julie would be less than amused. It would scare the dogs, too, and they don’t need any more stress in their anxiety-filled lives. I mean wind and rain and loud engines and people having conversations across the street are already enough triggers for those poor babies.

Odds are, I don’t have cancer. Bone cancer is very rare, and I am not sick. My bloodwork is good. In fact, I’ve healed so well from my hysterectomy that I’m itching to get back on the pickleball court. But that’s at least another five weeks away.

Oh, and then there’s my meniscus tear. So, I can’t play pickleball until I’ve at least healed from surgery #2. Two surgeries in the first quarter of 2024. Who would have predicted? 

I don’t think I would be focusing so much on the cancer possibility if my sister hadn’t died from glioblastoma a year and a half ago. A shocking diagnosis. A quick and brutal goodbye. 

Today, she would have been 60.

Sixty.

And she’ll never see it. We’ll never celebrate it. Cancer—with its propensity to ruin a party—said no.

So as the weeks of waiting for an answer drag into months… MRI, doctor appointments, specialist appointments, follow-ups, another MRI, and so many unanswered phone messages… I am left wondering… have I already done more things that will turn out to be my last?

At my most recent appointment, the ortho doctor told me not to walk on the beach. “If your knee twists the wrong way, that bone could shatter,” he said.

Have I taken my last sunset walk on the beach?

Will I ever get a chance to lose this 50 extra pounds?

Am I, like my mother, never going to have the chance to travel to Europe?

Have I written all the books I’m meant to write?

If my kids choose to marry, will I be able to walk them down the aisle?

If my kids choose to have kids, who will hold and love my grandbabies like I would have?

Life. Just when you think you have it figured out, it knocks the shit out of you. I’m not going to talk about any live-in-the-moment or love-while-you-can platitudes because I’m not feeling that right now. I’m just feeling sad. And scared. And anxious.

I miss my mom. I miss my sister. They should still be here. I should still be here. Life can just slow down and wait. I have so many things yet to do.

Happy Birthday, Carrie. I used to joke that you’d always be older than me, but you stopped at 58. Not fair. I’m telling Mom.

Love,

Katrina