how cancer has helped me worry less

Last week, here in Wisconsin, it was pushing 70 degrees.  In February.  The bluebirds, red-winged black birds and robins are back.  Too early.  Global warming worries me.  A lot of things worry me.  I've always been a worrier (I come by it honestly) but now that Andy has cancer I feel like I worry less.  Weird huh?

Before cancer I worried about our kids exposure to toxins in plastic, in food, in soap, in carpeting, in paint, in medicine, in the air, in the water...  I worried these things would cause the big C-word.  We eat organic, our cleaning products are non-toxic, I double check things on EWG's site, buy used clothes to avoid formaldehyde, we don't use teflon, or heat or store in plastic, we use non-toxic body care products, and non VOC paints....we've been as clean as we can be for a long time.  What do I make of that?  First of all, I wouldn't change a thing (except the worry part).  Being clean isn't just better for all of us, but of course it's better for our world and that matters too.  Did Andy get cancer because of environmental exposure to something?  Quite possibly.  Will we ever know?  No.  But we do feel that lessening his toxic load as much as possible so his body can concentrate on beating cancer is super important.  So clean we stay.  Mostly.  (Our kids sometimes eat fast food fries and ice cream on the same day and paint their nails with toxic crap without turning on the bathroom fan- but I don't worry about it anymore😉).

Before cancer I worried about the world our kids would inherit.  I worried about how much exposure to the news they had on NPR or on TV at grandparent's houses.  I worried about them growing up too fast in this world that pushes kids to not be kids anymore.  OK, and Trump still worries the shit out of me.  All these things are worth worry to some degree, but the truth is, we can't control much.  It's not to say we shouldn't protect our kids and march the heck out of Washington, but the obsessive worry part, is a story we are telling ourselves.  Because we have no idea what's next.  One month you can be in Florida playing on the beaches and then the next month you can have cancer.  And so I'm finding nothing quells worry like a life threatening disease.  I'm not suggesting you try it, but now that we've got it, I've taken note.  

The minutes of each day seem to tick by more slowly.  I'm good with that.  It's because I notice them now.  For instance, at this moment, it's 3pm on a Saturday.  I can see the smoke curling out of the shop chimney and I know Andy is carving away at something up there.  The cat begs for popcorn in the kitchen as Elsa and her friend have a snack.  I can see the new crust of ice holding tight to the crab apple limbs outside the window but the sun feels strong on my fingers as they type.  I stop and realize, all is well.  In this moment, all is really well. And now that I notice that, each day is full of incredibly sweet and beautiful moments.  Yes, the kids still fight over who gets to sit next to the cat, and I get library fines here and there, and the news on the internet is rarely good.  But still.  Here.  Right now.  What is here in this moment is all I know for sure.  Learning that has helped a lot.