Our short-lived adventure wasn’t nearly as climactic as the movie, The Bucket List, when two terminally-ill patients, Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman, decided to leave their cares curbside and embarked on an adventurous itinerary to fill their brief timeline left in life.
Maybe that’s what I hoped for when our luggage-packed Jeep, named Betty, left the driveway for destinations unknown–hoping that adventure would include over-the-top scenes and memories to look back on for years to come, so reminiscence would replace the void of loss.
So we left last week in our slightly used, but way cooler version of the I’m-having-a-mid-life-crisis-need-a-shiny-Vette-to-make-me-feel-young-again sports car. Instead, the Jeep Rubicon, decked in black on black, was our travel companion on our road trip.
So much has happened in the last couple years that adventure only seemed appropriate.
On Friday morning we headed out.
Soon after we jumped up into the front seats, a notification on my Facebook timeline alerted me that two years ago, to the day, we moved into our dream home. The home which seemed to have dropped down from Heaven above.
The very next day, another message appeared that was originally posted one year ago–a message from me alerting my friends that chemotherapy had ended sooner than later because of a low red-blood count. But I assured everyone (including myself) that the oncologist believed it did what it was supposed to–meaning it killed all roaming cancer cells. A year ago. It felt like an eternity ago since I desperately held onto that false hope.
Around the time of last year’s hope-filled post, we took a short excursion to a hotel nearby for a couple of days of rest, when I had a dream/nightmare. It seems to sum up our experience of the last two years:
I am driving in the rain. I can barely see for the water acts as a shield from my vision. The glare from the headlights only makes the drive more difficult. Somehow though, I make my way to an exit, and sit off on the road’s edge for what seems like a minute or two while I ponder what to do next.
I think Bill interjects, saying he can drive, but I tell him I got it.
After regaining composure, I maneuver my way onto the pavement again and see a fork in the road up ahead. I slowly attempt to take the slight curve to the left, when I am stopped by a huge boulder which barricades the entire lane.
I look the other way and see a deep sinkhole, with crumbling rocks all around its edges-caused from an earthquake, or something of significant magnitude, as the road is swallowed up in the depths.
I slam on the brakes.
When I notice another option suddenly appear–only in dreams can new paths appear without road crews and endless construction. But quickly realize the pavement ends at the edge of a cliff.
We cannot go any further.
I wake up exhausted and anxiety ridden.
A couple days ago we ended our brief adventure at this same hotel, feeling somewhat dejected and depleted of energy.
I sit here, wondering what to call this writing, when a song fills my earbuds about holding onto hope. Hope. When roads crumble and adventures end, I know my hope is not in this timeline of life, but securely fastened in eternity, when bucket lists and oncologists will no longer be necessary…