My husband was trying to get me home when I stopped breathing.
We were in downtown traffic. I’d just had another minor procedure. Somewhere between the hospital and home, I lost consciousness and slumped forward in the passenger seat.
Robert had to find a safe place to pull over, get me out of the car, and call for help.
I remember very little. He has to remember all of it.
I’ve since told him that if I ever do this again, I’ll try to choose a more convenient location. A picnic on the hospital lawn, perhaps. Somewhere within easy shouting distance of the people qualified to deal with my apparently unreliable commitment to breathing.
Humor gives me somewhere to put things I don’t know how to hold.
But I keep coming back to him in our car. Looking over at me. Realizing.
He was just trying to get us home.
That was how October began.
Now it’s Tuesday evening, November 3. Election night. Newly elected leaders are appearing on my television screen, and I catch myself releasing a breath I’ve been holding for I don’t know how long.
Some of it, anyway.
Even now, I’m rationing relief. There is still reason for caution, I remind myself. Still so much that could go wrong. Still so much to overcome.
But beneath that familiar warning is a feeling I’ve desperately missed.
Hope.
Despite it all, voters elected Chris Pappas, an experienced congressman, to become the first openly gay man in the United States Senate. And even nearly half a billion dollars from Elon Musk couldn’t secure some of the victories he wanted.
Neither erases what worries me. But both remind me that the future isn’t already decided. There are many similar moments from this election that inspire hope.
I’m usually a hopeful person. I believe that, given the opportunity, most people will choose kindness. They’ll help when they can. I’ve built much of my work and my life around that belief.
Over the past year, it has taken a beating.
October nearly knocked the breath out of it.
There was another biopsy, and the wait for the results. Then the news we’d feared: there was more cancer.
Then another scan. Another wait.
When I finally learned it hadn’t spread to bones, I was grateful. Deeply grateful, in fact. But relief is complicated when the good news arrives inside the bad. I could celebrate what hadn’t happened while still being frightened by what had.
Meanwhile, I’m waiting to learn whether treatment is helping my cardiomyopathy. Another test later this month may give us answers as to which direction I’m headed.
I would very much like my organs to organize a meeting and agree on a less dramatic approach.
Until then, I wait.
For results. For appointments. For someone to tell me what happens next.
I’ve started to recognize how much of my year I’ve spent waiting for permission to exhale.
There’s a bargain I keep trying to make with uncertainty: give me one reassuring answer, and then I’ll relax.
Just let this test come back okay.
Just let us get through this month.
Just let the election be over.
But one answer leads to another question. One appointment leads to the next. The calendar fills, and somehow the moment when I’m finally allowed to breathe keeps moving farther away.
I’ve been doing this with my body. I’ve been doing it with my country.
Waiting to learn whether I can recover. Waiting to see whether we can turn away from corruption and cruelty and toward a country that cares for more of its people.
These are different fears, but they’ve been sharing space inside me. Some days, it’s so very crowded in here.
And I’m beginning to understand that I cannot keep postponing the whole of my life until I know how everything turns out. I can’t keep waiting to breathe. I can’t keep waiting for permission.
I don’t want to look back on the time between appointments and find only the appointments.
Robert and I still have a life together. I want to be present for it. For an ordinary conversation. For something ridiculous that makes us laugh. For the hours when we get to be husbands without having to be patient and caregiver, too.
Especially after that drive home, I don’t want to overlook the ordinary yet extraordinary gift of getting home together. Wrapping our arms around our friendly pup who always waits excitedly at the door. Existing together in the space we’ve created.
There’s an irony in all of this. Part of my work with the Center for Trauma and Stress Education is helping people navigate uncertainty, stress, and trauma. I stand in front of a room and tell people there is hope. I teach them skills like square breathing.
One of the psychologists I work with once told me that sometimes, when we’re facing the hardest things, we hold our breath or take shallower breaths. Right when our bodies need more oxygen, more fuel, to courageously tackle what lies ahead, we breathe less.
We must keep breathing. We must keep taking courageous steps forward.
I wish I could tell you that stopping breathing taught me how to live without fear- to now always breathe deeply.
It didn’t.
I’m still scared. Sometimes terrified. I still brace myself before opening a test result. I still catch myself holding back happiness, as though enjoying it too fully might leave me less prepared for whatever happens next.
But withholding joy, holding my breath, hasn’t made the frightening news easier to hear. It has only given the fear more of my time. It has only made me more tired. More angry. More sad.
So, I’m trying to practice something different.
Letting a good moment be good for as long as it lasts. Accepting reassurance when it comes, even when it comes with qualifications. Allowing myself to hope without demanding a guarantee.
I won’t manage it every day. There will be days when getting through is enough. I don’t want hope to become one more thing I’m supposed to perform while I’m sick.
But right now, it’s here.
The election results came in. For the first time in a while, I can imagine a better direction for our country. Later this month, I hope I’ll hear something encouraging about my heart.
There is still cancer. Still uncertainty. Still a difficult road ahead for me and for the country I love.
But right now, I will enjoy the time between the hard and unknown. The ordinary, beautiful time at home with Rob and our pup.
I don’t want to hold my breath through that part.
Right now, I’m letting it out.
And taking another.
