I haven't been much in a writing mood lately. I started a new medication to prevent a recurrence of the breast cancer they just scooped out of Goliath. My hands hurt like a toothache that won't go away, I have hot flashes that make me glisten with sweat like a greased pig, along with white-eyed insomnia, and a total lack of energy that makes every step an effort. I feel almost guilty that I am bitching about this at all, and I should sound grateful that the cancer was caught so early that I have a marvelously high chance of beating it. And I am grateful, make no mistake. Every minute that I am miserable I am grateful for my luck. Grateful for the machine that found the lump long before it could be felt by hand. Grateful for the surgeon who cut it out. Grateful for the radiation oncologist who will soon be barbecuing my boob to kill any cancerous cells lingering around. Grateful for the oncologist who prescribed this pill that has caused side effects that have placed me in temporary (hopefully) hell.
And today I am grateful for my sisters. They are so much a part of who I am that sometimes I feel we breathe for each other. They are the best part of my life, during the worst part of my life. They taught me about trust, laughter, anger, happiness, and what being a sister is all about. They also taught me that love is unconditional. I've learned acceptance, and how to listen to their counsel. Growing up, I was the one they looked to for advice, being the eldest sister. Those tables have been reversed in the past several months as I struggled to deal with this cancer. They are MY rock now, the ones who make me laugh when my mood is dark, the ones who I know are always thinking about me. They are still part of me, have always been part of me, and will be until the day I die.
Been looking at this tunnel for months now. This year hasn't been the best, but I really can't gripe much, because it could be worse. Yes, things can get worse. I've had those years too. It's been a while since I felt like pieces of the sky were falling, and hitting my head, but this year has taught me that it is time to bring out the safety helmet before the next piece of sky whacks me.
I don't mean to sound negative, and I am sure that there are plenty of oh woe is me blogs out there, and I am really not that type of person. Mostly I've been numb and just not dwelling on this cancer in my breast. I am good at avoiding stuff. When things get tough, I have a knack for just not thinking about a problem if there is nothing I can do about it. I have to say, this problem has given me pause though. Time to think about where my life is, where I want it to go, and things I haven't done that I want to do. We all think about things that way sometimes, right? I mean, I know I can't be the only person who has felt these things.
I feel like I have kind of skipped all those stages of grief that Elisabeth Kubler-Ross wrote about, and just went straight to numb. As numb as the armpit and shoulder where the lymph node was removed. I'm glad for small things, like finding out this cancer has a 94%ish cure rate, and that the lymph node was negative. It almost makes me feel ashamed for feeling this numbness. But it is there, and I can't make it go away, so I am focusing now on the light at the end of the tunnel. And allowing myself to be numb for the moment. Thinking as I watch the clock tick away and the hours go by until this next surgery later this morning to remove the cancer cells that were missed, and that the tissue biopsy revealed.
So I look at Goliath and wonder what it will be like to have a breast with a crater in it, dread being put to sleep and the loss of control over my own body, dread the discomfort and pain afterward because I am so effing ready to be well again, and not this recovering surgery patient. I want my effing life back, things back to normal. I have SHIT TO DO.
So, hurry up sunrise, and let's get this show on the road. I have a life to live.
the light at the end of the tunnel
My parting shot is a favorite Pink song, that exactly fits my mood right now...(alert, explicit language)...
Is there anything in life BETTER than rock and roll????
This week I chose to use the question "why do you write?" as my Friday Reflections prompt.
It's no secret. I write for my grandkids first, and family second. That anyone reads my blog still amazes me. I mean, how interesting can the things I write about be, really? Unless you all read it for the same reason I read lots of blogs:
To get a glimpse of how you think, feel, and be a part of your world/life for a brief time.
I was reading blogs long before I was writing one (which is almost 5 years now). I hope that when my grandkids are older, they read what I have written and say "oh yeah, I remember that!" and that through my words, poetry, and photographs they will remember me, and someday tell their kids about me. I think of my blog as a series of letters, published publicly, but still so very much like personal letters I would write to them.
I feel that if I capture just a portion of my memories and daily life, then I have left something of myself behind.
As a child I used to think that only people with huge talent, who were creative and famous in their lifetime, really made their "mark" on the world. Then I read about people like the artist Vincent Van Gogh (who comes immediately to mind), whose talent was not appreciated until after he died. Now I am not intimating that I am that talented, nor do I expect to be noted for what I have created during my lifetime. But what I did want was to leave some kind of stamp behind, something tangible that my family could touch, read, feel, to let them know I was here.
And so my blog happened. I have painted since I was a child, and been a seriously amateur photographer for many years, but the urge to blog surprised even me. As time went on and my thoughts meandered all over the place, I thought I would eventually run out of things to say. I have slowed down a bit from that first furor to capture as much as possible of my thoughts, but I still feel the urge to write, except in times of great stress, when my brain just sort of shuts down. Eventually, the stress passes and my thoughts start to flow again. Life is dynamic, and so I realize even as I go through dips, that they will pass, and my thoughts will come again.
Writing, for me, is like the ebb and flow of life...
