Life is Brutiful

2022-The Year of the Dumpster Fire

Does the Chinese calendar have a Year of the Dumpster Fire? Or how about the Year of the Charlie Foxtrot?

Nah. Prolly not.

These were my thoughts as I thumbed through my 2022 Planner.

I love planners. I love adding my goals at the beginning of the year. I love moving into a new planner-all the birthdates and important dates give me pause for gratitude as I consider loved ones.

My 2022 planner has a pretty floral cover and the words “In a world where you can be anything, be kind.” It has coaching prompts throughout. A Venn diagram for your life planning. A blank page with a pretty border to write This Year’s Vision. A goal tracker. There’s a page to plan your ideal week.

Oh. So much goodness. Yeah, I know I’m a little bit of a geek. But this annual ritual makes my tail wag and gets me excited about a new year.

I review a few of last year’s goals and to-dos: Change my name back to Winn, switch my domain to TheresaWinn, this was part of my healing steps as I launched into my first year as a divorced woman. Finish Spiritual Direction School. Continue Spanish language studies. Business plans and so on…

I lined my calendar out with goals, deadlines and little rewards.

It all went out the window on January 6.

How appropriate it would be on the anniversary of the Capital insurrection. (Sort of like learning about my Was-band’s infidelity on December 7, my very own day that shall live in infamy.)

Invasive Ductal Carcinoma. The biopsy results were in. I had breast cancer. (Later I would find out it was in both breasts.)

My planner reflects two very different agendas, one before January 6 and one after January 6.

My goals and to-dos after 1/6: Update will and tend to end-of-life planning before the double boobectomy. Embark on a crash course on breast cancer. Crying is not on this list but trust me, there was a lot of it.

As I flip through the pages of the calendar, there are doctor appointments. Hospital appointments. An appointment for my car after some asshole stole the catalytic convertor from my Prius right out from under my nose.

I have appointments with my therapist-the agenda there too changed. Step aside recovery from infidelity and gray divorce, let’s talk about the existential crisis a cancer diagnosis brings.

Chemotherapy appointments (Four of ‘em). Medication reminders. A house sale to close, a few weeks after the final chemo. Final day of work from a job I loved.

My calendar has other notes too. I was so overwhelmed with the number of decisions I had to make, I would often schedule a date on the calender to make them. These were not what to fix for dinner dilemmas.

“Decide on genetic testing” is on one page. (That was gut wrenching as I was terrified of having a defective gene that would complicate my health care plan significantly. Thankfully, I did NOT have it.)

To finish the year in the spirit of the ongoing dumpster fire, one of my best friends died of cancer a few weeks ago.

Please, 2022, no more shit, kay? Lemme finish the year quietly. Uneventfully.

I must pause, though.

I would be remiss to not state the amazing goodness of this past year.

The amount of people who loved me and supported me through all the darkness. The financial gifts that kept the lights on. My healing team at Mayo-from the front desk clerks to the doctors.

Angels that appeared out of the ethers and sent me cards. Texts, phone calls and emails. Prayers and flowers. Gift cards for meals.

My sweetie who drove 2,000 miles to be with me not only for my surgery but a month later to hold my hand through chemo.

I have encouraging quotes scribbled between appointments. Reminders to read poems like “I Worried” by Mary Oliver. Reminders to choose joy.

There are a few times I jotted out things I accomplished despite the difficulties. My type A tendencies need to be reminded lest I slip into feeling like a wastrel. (Hello, ego.)

I launched a column on Medium and have written over 100 articles. Figured out some tech stuff (which may or may not have involved copious cuss words.)

The biggest thing: I got through breast cancer. I am a survivor. I still don’t think the magnitude of that has hit me still. I suspect that may take some time to unpack that gift.

My calendar reflects this sacred truth: Great love and great suffering are intertwined.

Life is brutal. Life is beautiful. It’s Brutiful.

Chemo appointments are jotted down next to send thank you note to Maggie. Attending concerts with my sweetie (after making sure it wasn’t immediately after chemo.)

There’s an appointment for an oil change-the shop owner waved off my payment when he learned I was in breast cancer treatment. He was a cancer survivor himself. We both cried and hugged before I left.

As I reflect, my tears of grief turn into tears of gratitude for the privilege of being here still. For having so many loved ones in my world. The acts of kindness and generosity.

I am an incredibly wealthy woman. (I hope this next year my anemic bank balance gets the memo.)

As I move into my 2023 planner, it will be done with a gentle touch and an awareness that none of us are guaranteed the future we plan for, regardless of how hard we work.

I am declaring 2023 the year of The Fresh Start.

While my optimism is tempered, I am very much looking forward to the new year.

A new beginning. A Fresh Start.

Fun note: After the new year, I will be launching “Fresh Start Sisterhood” over on Substack. It will be a healing and fun place for older(ish) women facing major transitions. I will keep you posted here on the launch date! I hope you’ll join me over there in addition to hanging with me here on Medium.

Thanks so much for reading. You can find me around the internet at www.theresawinn.com, on Facebook, LinkedIn and Instagram. If you’d like to support my writing in a small way, feel free to contribute to my wishlist. (Right now it’s a one-year subscription to Canva.)