Time is a Thief

I have been existing in a very strange state.

My mom survived her episode and now we transition into the next phase of all of this—outpatient life and cancer treatment.

My new normal is away from home. I could count on one hand how many nights I’ve slept in my own bed in the last three weeks.

And in a weirdly difficult way to describe, time has no meaning to me right now. Time has no meaning, partially because it is not on my side. They say perception is reality. In my current state of reality, if I do not acknowledge time it does not exist. I do not wear a watch. My car clock is broken. I intentionally don’t check my phone for hours at a time. I most certainly can look at the sun and guess what time I think it is.

But does it really matter to know what time it is?

I am well aware that this mentality will come around and get me in the worst way possible. But we cope the best way we know how to.

We saw the doctors at the fancy new hospital. They informed us this is our new normal. This is not something that ever will be cured. My brother who was present pressed the doctor for an answer on how much time we would have. They pulled him into the hallway to talk not in front of my mom who did not want to know.

I do not think I have ever hoped for a cure, just more time.

The days pass remarkably fast, but also very slowly. I am not at my day job, but I have next to no time for myself. Talking to her insurance, advocating her case to the two different hospital staffs, disputing the malpractice bills—it eats up hours of daylight. I feel more at ease when it is dark outside and no one is awake.