Balloons.

I DID A HAPPY DANCE.

That’s right. I admit that it was not graceful or beautiful, but it was me. And that is precisely what God is teaching me through this, through everything, that I can be me in any situation without shame.

When I got that phone call last week, my whole body started shaking. My legs, and arms, and hands all suddenly made of jelly. Logically, I knew that the Neuro clinic would call me after my MRI (my 16th MRI; the 16th time I lay in a small tube for an hour and a half, completely still; the 16th time I pretended I was okay as my chest burned and my stomach lurched with fear). Yet, that phone call pushed me over the edge as the “what if’s” crescendoed to a deafening scream. So, as much as it hurt, I let myself sit in that moment of doubt, of terror, and of hope, each feeling swirling in the whirlpool of my mind.

And right then, in that moment of dichotomy, the one I so often dread, shove down, and ignore, I thought of the balloons.

It’s true, every emotion is just like a balloon. The ceiling above you is filled with your emotional balloons. Perhaps, a yellow one for excitement, a black one for sadness, and a red one for joy. Who knows. But, there are two things that are certain of our balloons:

1. You can hold a balloon, but you will never, ever become the balloon.

We all fear becoming the balloon. I fear letting the sadness ache. I fear that if I allow myself to be fearful, I may become ceaselessly afraid. I fear that if I allow myself to be angry about having a tumour that is constantly affecting my life, I will become an angry person.

But, I never will become the balloon. And this realization allows me to feel what I am feeling, knowing full well, that at some point, I can release the balloon and it will gently float back to the ceiling. And I can grab a new one down.

2. You do not have to hold a single balloon at a time. Grab two, grab three, grab ten. You can hold many.

It is hard to understand this. Our balloons can be scary because often we think that we have to pick and choose which one to hold at a given time. This was my approach to my balloons for a long time. Since I thought I could only hold one, I always wanted to hold the pretty ones; I wanted joy, peace, thankfulness, and contentment.

But I ignored some of the balloons that really needed attention. In my case; anger, fear, bitterness and anxiety.

And as tough as it has been to learn that I can simultaneously hold my balloon of deep thankfulness (for skillful surgeons, legs that move, and becoming independent once again) and my balloon of anger (the one that says, “Why me? Why can’t I be like other 19 year olds? How can I ever become me?”), I am beginning to do it.

And that, that simple knowledge of the balloons, is helping me and healing me.

So today, with my anxious balloon and my balloon of dread and my balloon of hope and my balloon of faith, I marched in to see my doctor. In all truthfulness, my anxious balloon and my balloon of dread kind of had the spotlight… And that’s okay.

As I paced and chatted to get my mind off the “what if’s,” Dr. McDonald entered the room.

“The images look great! Your spinal cord is looking even better than last time.”

I keeled over and all the colour rushed back into my face.

But there was an astric to go along with his first sentence. Basically, there is still a tiny bit of tumour remaining. This month I am going to meet with the Tumour Team (which sounds pretty legit) and discuss options of abolishing my little pet once and for all.

This may mean chemo therapy.

This may mean radiation.

But despite, the astric, I grabbed my happy balloon, joyful balloon and hopeful balloon… And just let go of the others for a while.

AND I DID A HAPPY DANCE. Holding my balloons, holding them loosely. And admiring all the other balloons that remained on the ceiling waiting for their turn. All the balloons that allowed me to be fully me.