Why is my whole life not suddenly in beautiful perspective now that I’ve faced death in a more real way? The little things still get to me—like my morning being upturned in a not-awful way by a sick-home-from-school-Sophie. It’s not like I woke up and got diagnosed with cancer, so what’s the big f-ing deal? I’m still yelling at my kids. I still feel anxious about the mess in the house. I still feel like normal old me, which is disappointing, honestly. It feels like everything should be different.
The truth is, I want everything to be different.