Navigating the Reality of Cancer, Leaving and Loss
It’s 6:30 am on a Sunday, and I’m sitting in bed under my very traditionally Swedish Klippan blanket with my MacBook on my lap and a significant cup of coffee beside me on the bedside table. The curtains that separate my little sleeping nook from the rest of my apartment are carelessly pulled halfway closed, but just beyond them I can still glimpse the chaos that is my life: the grocery bags filled with clothes, ready to be donated; piles of books lining the walls; Magic: The Gathering cards stacked on my kitchen table; and thrown-open, half-packed suitcases covering the floor.
I’m moving, and this time it’s not into a bigger apartment with a girlfriend or to a nicer neighbourhood on the other side of town, but all the way back to Canada, to my hometown of Victoria. It feels like a big, serious, expensive undertaking, and certainly the thought of it stresses me out: I love landing in a new place, and I can even honestly say that I love leaving. But I loathe and fear, and therefore put off as long as possible, all the preparation required before the actual departing even takes place: the planning, packing and tying up of loose ends are not my forte.
But it’s also okay, and I’m trying not to be crushed under the stress of the infinite minute decisions required to get…
