Bridges

Over the past two years, I’ve sat in my oncology clinic’s waiting room more times than I can count.

Chemo.
Doc appointments.
Keytruda infusions.
Scan results.
All the other ‘fun’ that comes with cancer.

Bu this morning, for the first time ever, I took the time to look around… and up.

Every painting on the walls?
A bridge.

Bridges over water, or shaky ground. Some stretching toward something you can’t quite see yet, others leading somewhere bright and postcardy.

Then it hit me in a holy-shit kind of way.

Bridges aren’t destinations: they’re crossings. They don’t erase what’s underneath them; they just span it. They’re built to carry weight and hold steady. As if to say, ‘get on… keep moving… I’ve got you…’

For two years, that’s what I’ve been doing: crossing a bridge.
From diagnosis to treatment.
From terror to something steadier.
From one version of my body to another that’s been opened, bruised, poisoned, bald at times, forever changed… and yet still here.

For two years I’ve been sitting in a room full of bridges without even noticing.
Today, I’m so fucking grateful that I looked up.