After a difficult diagnosis, I now live in the intertidal space between fear and 'seize the day'

This is a First Person column by Trish Matson, who lives in B.C.'s southern Gulf Islands. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, see the FAQ.

I was at the oceanside, the low tide exposing rugged, barnacle-encrusted sandstone and damp seaweed. I sat on a log and tried to calm my breath. 

"Just" (inhale) "be" (exhale). 

I quietly described to myself what I could see — the expanse of water, the rocks, driftwood, tree branches above, a distant sailboat — and what I could hear (birds, the buzz of a wasp or fly, a boat's motor, voices of people at the beach's end). Tricks advised by my therapist. But I could still feel the quick patter of my heart, close to my throat. 

"Just…be," I repeated.

We had recently moved to a small island in B.C. with a population of under 5,000 people, to live in a house surrounded by tall cedar and fir, just minutes from the ocean. This is early retirement for me, the embrace of a quieter life, immersed in the restorative natural world. Early retirement because I have metastatic cancer. It's slow growing, but in need of constant monitoring and treatment, which is no longer as easy as getting in the car and driving for 20 minutes. I now must navigate ferries — schedules, possible delays and time away from home. 

Last night, exhausted, in tears, I accused my husband of being in denial. He was planning and envisioning our future. But I was unfair. We're partners in this crime. Or partners in this hope. I suppose it's both — denial and faith and hope and fear are impossible to untangle.

I must also navigate living this tidal life — how to move forward with some joy despite a deep, grumbling grief that pushes me back. And fear, and uncertainty, as I embark on this game of medical whack-a-mole. Maybe I am — as I've always professed and as the small stone on my windowsill carved with "carpe diem" daily reminds me — seizing the day, the days, the weeks, months, the years?

It is a strange thing to grieve for one's own life. We are, of course, all going to die. That is a simple fact. One of my doctors is fond of pointing out that any of us could get hit by a bus tomorrow (I'll note, though, she always says "tomorrow" — revealing that human desire to place catastrophe firmly in the future). 

I can imagine what it is to have a terminal illness and have seen family and friends navigate those final steps with grace and bravery. I can imagine doing that too but I'm not there yet. At the same time, I'm also no longer in the land of not-knowing, which we occupy most of our lives. 

We are still settling into our new house. I am aware of how much time this has all taken and will continue to take. At moments, I feel I'm going through the motions. I love our domestic space but feel an odd lethargy and resistance to the nest-making that has normally come so easily to me. 

Having what will ultimately, certainly become a terminal diagnosis is a strange in-between, a kind of intertidal space in the psyche.

I seem especially to be struggling to figure out where the pictures should hang, particularly the family photos. We've always had a family wall — framed moments capturing ourselves, our children, grandparents and siblings. Our old cat. Nieces and nephews. The network of love at the centre of my existence, our existence, existence. There's a perfect wall, here, down a hall by the main bathroom, as in our last place. But the boxes sit, and each day, I wonder if in keeping that wall bare, I am avoiding picturing the inevitable unframed moments ahead.

I know I will soon hang the photos and arrange things and settle more fully into this space. I will sometimes cry, and be angry, or, as my lovely therapist says, "wobbly." And before the summer's end, I will immerse myself again and again in the cold but endurable ocean, feel it hold me, buoy me. And breathe.

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