QoL FastBlast!: Location. Location. Location.
Whether considering houses or tumors... it matters.
So things have gotten a little weird on my end. As it turns out, my family and I have started the process of moving. It’s mostly a good thing all around, but definitely not without its downsides as most reading this can imagine. And on cue, you’re about to learn more about that if you keep reading.
There’s the stress of selling one house while looking for another and hoping the timing all works out. There’s the prepping of the current house and keeping it clean for showing potential buyers while not just living in that house, but living in that house with three dogs and two young children. And trust me, the two young children make way more messes than the dogs.
And then when looking at house to move to, there are all sorts of considerations… things like bedroom count, quality of local schools, distance to fun social activities, and the like.
But when cancer is involved, there are other things to look at like ease of mobility around the house, distance to doctor’s offices, proximity to support systems for rides and to help in little ways.
Oh and there’s a big one… is there a good room to die in?
Yes, you read that right. As we’ve established in the last few posts, I’m not likely to die in the next year or so. That is great news and I am quite happy about it. But let’s not forget that statistically speaking, the odds are very low that I’ll live long enough to be eligible for even assisted senior living, if I were even willing to leave my children who I feel are a great part of my success in not dying.
So, dying. Um yeah. It’s a consideration.
While not the prime impetus for the move, there really isn’t a good place to die in our current home. It’d likely be the master bedroom which is relatively accessible for when I just can’t get around the house well anymore. And wherever I die will likely become a traumatic room to be in… ya know… “the room dad died in”. My wife probably won’t want to sleep there for a long time, if ever, and my kids likely won’t want to go into the room until they’re well into adulthood.
The house hunt so far has gone really well with a few really promising candidates that check all our boxes: good schools, plenty of bedrooms, a nice yard for the doggos… and a room for me to die in.
Again, this is not something I expect to happen in the next couple years, but who am I kidding by thinking that it couldn’t happen? A dying room isn’t even something that I’ve been actively thinking about but it always finds a way to creep into my mind as I tour these potential new homes.
There was one home we all particularly liked. It features some nice design touches, a fantastic kitchen, really nice bathrooms (it’s a thing I’m picky about, ok?), and the price is (barely) within what we can likely afford. I wasn’t even thinking about a room to die in but then I was looking for a potential “office” space on the first floor of the house where I could work on music stuff, write this blog of sorts, and other creative things. And it had a really good one… with an awesome bathroom next to it that scratched that itch. It really is great for that and there’s plenty of room still for a full or queen sized bed should I want to take a nap or something. There are even a couple windows with nice views to look out at nature for inspiration…
…Or should I be laying in the bed during home hospice care. Ya know… dying.
I guess it’s good that there’s a space where I can remain creative until my final days and hours but the realization that the room worked for dying as well was a bit, ummm, heavy. And then I thought about how the room is kind of tucked away near the garage and how it would be really easy for anyone to avoid ever going into after I’m gone. Things did get intense emotionally at that moment. I may have cried some. Or a lot.
The house really is perfect in many ways and I look forward to seeing my wife, girls, and dogs make the most of living in it should we be successful in buying it. But yeah, I’m also pretty darn likely to die in it.
Not in the “we all get old and eventually die when we’re old” or even a “we all might get hit by a bus tomorrow” ways but like “hey, you’re gonna die sometime in the next 5-10 years if you’re lucky and no one is gonna give you any hints when that process will begin”. I will be so very happy if I make it to see both my daughters graduate high school and move out. Not that they’re leaving… that I lived to see them leave without really messing up their teen years (something that neither have made it to yet).
It really is a different paradigm altogether than the oft used “bus” analogy that I’ve come to loathe. Just like my fatigue and memory issues, it really isn’t like what most reading this experience on some level.
So walking into this room and effectively seeing where and how I will likely die was a bit… different. Fortunately my kids weren’t there too see me ugly cry. I don’t want them to know my full potential relationship with the space. Should we get the house, I will love working in the room, but it will definitely haunt me regularly as well. I will love everything about the house, but those moments. But knowing that it is really a dream home for my wife and daughters is enough for me to put up with the occasional emotional breakdown.
So you see, the situation for cancer patients to find motivation and/or positivity isn’t aptly addressed by the “we could all get hit by a bus tomorrow” statement. Us cancerfølken already know we’l get hit by a bus. The only questions are “from what direction?” or “how long will it take for us to actually die?” It’s not overly negative or Eeyore-ish to say that many of us have already actually been hit by a bus. It’s just not clear how extensive the damage is. Like did it just mess up the bicycle we were riding or did it flatten us?
So yeah, fuck right off with that analogy. Know your place when talking to cancer people. Location matters.
You are always so very good at conveying things. I get you, at least on some level. It was 1991 when I had cancer for the first time. It was fairly advanced. Doctors didn't know if I would make it. I was a single mom with two children, six and seven years old. I asked God to please let me live long enough to raise my children. I was terrified for my children. I thank God for his grace in granting my request. God bless you in the battle.
That's heavy, man. But I see why it's a consideration.
Just try to stay away from busses for a good while yet, yeah?