Wanting

I have now spent exactly one year living with my longest lurking fear. I’m here. I have no words for any of it, but I do have some hopes for the future. I think I dare to write them down.

My scans are clean forevermore.

The chemo pill fills the measure of its creation but cools it with the side effects.

I figure out how to swallow five monster pills a day without gagging or choking or making a whole big thing of it (“High-five me! I did it!”).

I never do another 90-minute stint in a narrow, noisy MRI tube with IVs in both of my arms.

I gain 25 pounds (please, please).

I never again faint in a public place. Or a private place.

I never again get wheeled into an ambulance.

My lonely kidney keeps on killing it.

I don’t contract any bacterial infection that a spleen is meant to conquer. (Who knew spleens had a purpose? We’ve been lied to.) 

My partial pancreas pumps out enough insulin to keep the diabetes at bay.

I get to keep the rest of my organs.

I feel like a million bucks the day I turn 50.

I eat as much as I put on my plate.

I run a day’s worth of mundane errands without getting dizzy.

We take the planned trips to Europe we’ve been forced to scrap, and I walk down miles of cobblestone and back. I gaze at flying buttresses and cloud-topped Alps. I eat pastries that are works of art, and they don’t taste like plastic.

I cook a whole Thanksgiving dinner without having to lie down in the middle.

I look in the mirror and recognize myself. “Ah, there you are!” I say.

My heart beats in such a strong, steady rhythm that I hardly notice it—but I welcome every ache and swell.

I laugh so hard my kids get scared and I have to cover my face. 

I go on a girls’ trip with the perfect mix of wonderful women.

I grow tomatoes.

I run up the stairs to grab something I forgot. 

I complain about hauling real Christmas trees into the house and then bask in their memory-stirring scent.

I get choked up when my kids silly-sing in perfect harmony in the car.

I go gray in a dazzling way.

I hold hands with my husband in 214 new and old settings. 

I’m there—I’m right there—at every graduation and wedding.

I answer every text and call from my four favorites.

I see another musical or two on Broadway.

I continue to marvel at the people I made.

I blow up birthday balloons until I’m 80.

I find a bag of Cadbury mini eggs every time I look for one.

I cradle a newborn grandchild for hours while its mother sleeps.

I read every last book on my nightstand. 

I watch generations of tulips push through the dirt.

I help a family of immigrants. I learn their language.

I ask “Why can’t the mountains stay snowy and the valleys stay green?” 72 more times.

I feel the apple-crisp thrill of that first hint of autumn. 

I spend an afternoon studying Emily Dickinson at a sun-drenched table in the back corner of a library. 

I talk about real things around a campfire at night. I step away to stare at the vivid universe, then fall asleep somewhere indoors.

I see the aurora borealis (and not just through an iPhone).

I am a witness when my childrens’ dreams come true and a comfort when they don’t. 

I learn to write poetry.

I cry at live choral music several times a year.

I cry hearing Sara Bareilles sing in person.

I cry at the symphony.

I wear grooves into my piano keys.

I hike.

I bake.

I sing.

I breathe all of it in. I fill my hearty lungs with it.

I live until I’ve had enough of life.

Is that too much to ask?