Things Don't Happen For A Reason

An essay about Waffle's health, shifting perspective and the gift of a dream that is no longer deferred

When I got laid off two months ago, I received all sorts of notes and inquiries. Most were offerings of kindness and solidarity while some wanted answers and others wanted to give advice. Many said that things happen for a reason. All of the notes were well-intended, but one note in particular stuck with me. 

‘I know it doesn’t feel like this right now and it shouldn’t. Also, please be furious at me for even suggesting you move past the grief and outrage at this situation and onto a newfound perspective so quickly but just an idea – Maybe this is the gift you always wanted — Maybe this gives you what you’ve always deserved — More time with Waffle — Actual time with Waffle.’

I burst into tears when I read it, not that that’s anything unusual for me. But the tears I cried that morning were not in sorrow or grief at the loss of a dream — at the deep confusion and abandonment I felt about what had happened days earlier — at my utter shock and anger that one day we were transitioning into a nonprofit and the next, everything was simply gone.

No, the tears I cried that morning were tears of a different sort. They were tears of a dream that was no longer deferred — tears of acknowledgement that I finally had the time and most of all, energy, to once again make every day a best day for the sweet bear that gave me this gift of a life.

I rode that wave of possibility for a week or so — daydreaming up trips, writing bucket lists and building out a rehab schedule that would get Waffle back to the mountains, back to her beloved mountains with her sister. Everything felt lighter that week — on purpose and possible and then, one afternoon, my phone rang. It was Tufts Small Animal Hospital and they were calling to schedule an MRI for Waffle. The MRI was needed to check for the re-growth of masses. The prospect of the appointment had distantly haunted me since we found the mass at the ruptured disc site during her spinal surgery but I had pushed it away, seemingly locked it in the attic of my mind knowing that the present moment was all I had and that honoring it was all I could do.

But that afternoon, after scheduling the MRI for the Tuesday after Memorial Day, the fear that cancer was growing inside Waffle — that something might be eating her alive from her very insides — began to escape its proverbial cage. It slipped beneath the attic door slowly at first and then, all at once, it engulfed me like a thick blanket of fog on a calm day at sea. As hard as I tried to swat it away — to stay in the here —  to stay in the now — to stay with Waffle and Tug in the beauty of life, I couldn’t keep the fear from shrouding my view. And as it took over, as its thick cloak darkened everything I saw, I lost sight of the day dreaming and the bucket lists and the wild idea that I could get Waffle back to the mountains with her sister.

This past week, Waffle, Tug, and I went to Tufts for the appointment and Waffle had her MRI. The day passed in a haze of anxiety and distraction, but the next night, when Dr. Faisler called to review everything in full, the results were conclusive. The scan was entirely clean. Her back was beautifully healed.  And her blood panel was completely normal.

I was shocked to receive what was undoubtedly the best news one could ever hope for and asked him three times if he was sure — if this was real life and not a dream. He chuckled at my persistence, wholly aware of my psychiatric history, Waffle’s role, and my deep need for the confirmation of reality given my struggles with fugue states. 

‘Yes, Kate. This is real. You are real – Waffle is real – and her being okay is real. I know it seems too good to be true. I know you don’t really trust anything good but I promise you – this is real.’

With his words, I finally inhaled fully for the first time in weeks and just like the blazing sun burns off the thick fog on an early fall morning, the fear lifted and I finally saw my life with clarity. 

My girl was okay. We were okay. And we were still here.

After thanking him profusely, I joined Waffle on the floor, wrapping her in my arms, the biggest little spoon there ever was. As I held her and gently stroked a finger repeatedly across her brow, my mind drifted back to the many notes I had received about the lay off — all the ones that said things happen for a reason — all the ones that wanted answers I’d never have — and that one in particular that had held such hope upon reading it. 

As Waffle drifted into a snorfel-filled sleep, I smiled broadly, once again riding the wave of possibility and whispered into her ear:

“Things don’t happen for a reason, Bubba. But if we’re really lucky, we get to make a reason — we get to write its truth into our daily lives and live it into existence. The good that you and I can do together with this gift of health and time, my sweet bear — that will be our reason. But first, let’s make a plan to get you back to your mountains.’

In case you missed it:

We launched our inaugural podcast episode this week for paid subscribers.

The episode is a conversation with my husband about how we met and where things went from there. In it, we also discuss navigating my health, my parents deep opposition to getting Waffle and his own personal mental health story. It was an honor to have him open up as he did and I so hope you find the time to listen to his courage and kindness.

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