We love the sea.
My husband, daughter and I spent a few days at the coast just getting quiet, reading, drinking coffee, walking and listening. The landscape, it is not especially glamorous or light-filled, but we like it that way. I like the quiet serenity of it.
The subtlety of the colors and layers reminds me to look more deeply.
Not everything has to be bright, or vivid. Not everything needs to move.
And yet it does.
The CT scan showed that the tumor is shrinking. It’s gone down by about 1 cm.
This should be good news, and it is, but the rise of the celebratory music is dampered by the ongoing knowledge of cancer’s continued presence. I am talking about a lack of trust, a lack of belief in the body’s full capabilities. This lack is not pessimism, but rather the realization that this body can and has betrayed me. Faith in a long future is a vertebrae that’s been removed. One slight hunch is now always impacting movement, tilting each tentative step. It’s a little harder to look up.
“Continue the treatment until it shrinks further.” Then surgery, then recovery.
My old life feels like a harbor from which I drift further away each day.
I do not want to sound sad. There is always coffee, or sunlight.
A friend or a flower.
A note or a text message, laughter, friendship, good books, food, family, naps. You, they, these things:
- are all the antidote.
- are all I need.
And the truth is? We are always pending, are always, like the pendulum,
Flowers on the windowsill. Such pleasure in their colors and blooms.
Yesterday a haze of exhaustion. Wandering. Up and down stairs.
My mind a sluice with this thought, that. No order.
Post-infusion low counts and a ton called not going on my belly. Aka: sit down. Aka: not today.
Taxotere. Cold slide into my veins and killing the quick cells. Do your work.
How the sun, beautiful wanderer, lights up all the kitchen jars and vases like a song through glass. I can almost hear it.
Oh, warmth. Oh, living.
And arrival. Here now.
What else was it that I wanted? What else did I ever ask for?