As the miraculously sentient creatures of earth with the gift of forethought and planning, sometimes, our little giddinness producing miracles go sideways. New plans must take the place of a road not taken. Make some adjustments to life, or in other words, change.
Change happens regardless of those Steinbeckian mice and men and their ne'er do well notorious plans. Change cannot be changed to adapt to our busy day to a more pleasing time, furing which you can accept the understanding of your new thing and into your life, simultaneously with too many other important things that we are rushing around to get accomplished. Yet we're stuck waiting for yet never it would seem, when you can accept and integrate it seamlessly, not when a moment of "nothing much to do" happens. Change, accept it or not, happens at the worst times of your life. How large the richter scale measures the shaking, like change in a life, the worse the earthquake shifts the ground under your feet. Changes become your entire self when the diagnosis of cancer creates tectonic shifts in identity, spirituality, sexuality…all our -ity's.
Change comes in no particular size, no unit of time, no structural blueprints – nothing measurable to understand how far the shift will take you – a foot or thousands of miles. For instance, there's little sureties that must change during chemotherapy, such as your toothpaste for periodontal sensitivity and dry mouth from medications and opiate pain therapies. Then you face the omni-encompassing, life circumventing tectonic shifts. A soul wrapped in a physical body begins to change because of the corpus crisis cancer creates.
The identifications of a person's life, defined by what they DO to make a monetary living means less than before, even ending in a firey, screeching crash for some of us. Then what are we? Take our careers away and what does cancer leave as our identities in its wake? Our souls feel alone since in order to interact as part of a network of people who identify with us, now are those who barely remember our names anymore. We worked on projects once, but cancer took those projects and made them impossible for us to remain on the "team." Our souls become alone again.
Change to our identities from cancer, especially metastatic cancer, comes from a scarcity of funds and the unkmown quantity of life in human years. The equation for how much for how long when both =x and divided by zero doesn't exist.
It's more important to love what you do than making piles of money. The difference between living and making a living is love. So make love, so to speak. Love what you do each day and love those you spend precious time with each day. The love you give to your living and to the people who help you make it, deserve your best self. Those days when my best self looks something like the sock sorter in hell for the devil himself, I still putbon the best possible face I can find within and sort those damned socks. I hate sorting socks. If, by some bizarre quirk in the space time continuum, hell exists, then hell is not other people, as Jean Paul Sartre said, it's sorting socks! We all have our quirks. Do not be so judge-y. Existentialism aside, stay clear of what feels wrong to you, feels ugly, feels hurtful, feels boring. Walk out of a stupid movie, put down a dreadfully written book and grab a big slice of Happy Pie. Your flavor. Your way. You'll love each bite and in return have more love for your living and the people with whom you live.
Change your selections in your jukebox to music you can dance to, because no one knows exactly how long they have. I mean really, you could get hit by a bus or something!