Oatmeal Shades and Pastel Pinks

Growing up, oatmeal was a staple in our household. I'm not sure when it became the great betrayer of my taste buds, but it did. However, it didn't stop there. It traveled from my taste buds up my nose and landed in my eyes, the very sight of it would cause severe nausea. I tried it with maple syrup. I tried it with almonds. I even tried to cook it various ways to see if it was a texture problem. I even tried eating oatmeal cookies. Nothing worked.

I became a tyrant against all things oatmeal, except for design. With design, I found myself loving oatmeal paired with pastel pink, lemon yellow, midnight black, or blood orange-red. It was like oatmeal began to speak to me in a way I never beckoned for. Oatmeal the color, not the food.

My new willingness to become open about anything oatmeal has begun to reshape my thinking about other things, like a terminal illness. In the beginning, the words "terminally ill" meant the countdown to death.

A new definition for terminally ill

But now, being terminally ill only means that there's an illness that can't be controlled by the medical establishment. We live in a world where we obsess over control or the lack thereof.

We feel as if being in control is the cherry on top of a very large sundae that we know will be good to the very last drop. The problem is that if we look at the sundae realistically, we will come to realize that we will never be able to finish that sundae, and if we did we wouldn’t feel very well.

Trying to control how we view our terminal illness forces us to realize that we’re the passenger and not the driver of our illnesses. We can't control the outcome of the illness so we're forced to allow our doctors to guide us into unknown territory and trust that the outcome will work in our favor.

The truth is: Once we relinquish this false sense of control it opens the door to a support system that we never thought was possible.

Every new diagnosis brings about a new perspective, a new idea of what terminal illness really means. I’ve come to realize with all of these tests and scans, our medical teams are merely trying to figure it out and are looking for what works best for us as patients. Well, some more than others. Nevertheless, we’re all in this fragile boat together.

A medical rabbit hole

On a recent visit to the ER, the doctor rubbed my hand, patted my back, and with wide eyes of deep concern informed me that he was going to have to admit me because he had a few concerns. I simply declined the offer because deep down inside I had this overwhelming feeling of certainty that if I agreed to his plan my life would end during his process of search and destruction.

More often than not, doctors are all about conquer and defeat. Not realizing in the destroying process you have a life to contend with. They may find the problem and eradicate it, but while they see victories, the end results may be fatal for the patient. I’ve had doctors tell me, the surgery was successful BUT…

The buts are usually some side effects that seem to be worse than the illness. So I would rather know the buts first---long before I’m told about the success in this mysterious and extremely fragile body of mine.

I wish there were some type of test that could tell us once and for all what’s wrong with our bodies. It’s like every new test takes you down this medical rabbit hole, and there’s no end in sight. I feel like: Break my heart all at once; don’t just keep picking it apart.

It’s akin to telling someone I love oatmeal and they say, me too. And then I look at them and say, oatmeal the color, not the food.