We never know how high we are
Until we are asked to rise
And then if we are true to form
Our statures touch the skies
- Emily Dickinson from poem 1176
Happiness: an illusive inner state to those of us with terminal illnesses. Each happy moment rolls into the next, yet we drive through life on a road with potholes and speed bumps as a reminder that we better slow down and enjoy it while we have this chance. To be sure, each and every waking morning opens the curtains on a new chance to grab at the brass ring, that for us is coveted yet covered in Vaseline. The ring slips from our hand as we ride by. The horse we ride runs free with us on its back, hand filled with the shadow of oil from our attempt at forgetting for a single day that this might very well be our last.
As finding our dream house should make for a feeling of joy at the real chance of building a fantasy foundation for our new beginning, I still well up with tears when I’m alone. Amazingly we have experienced much joy, having moved from the angry, traffic snarled, polluted San Jose to the clean, kind, and friendly cradle of the Sierra mountain foothills. Put that together with finding a home to put down roots permanently and you’d think – what does she have to complain about? Believe me, I’m not complaining one iota. It’s simply that the bittersweetness of biting into such a red delicious apple knowing it’s laced with poison that will kill me sooner, or I hope, later, covers my heart with a dark vail of sadness. I may not be here to enjoy the fruits of the seeds we planted and have cared for such a long time now.
We tended to our garden most recently with the difficulty of the move itself and over many years seeing my beloved finally pull out of his depression. So much to look forward to, so much love in this very moment in time to be grateful for.
Then there’s my cancer.
Making plans to switch oncology teams, making sure we’re in as clean of a house with the very best infrastructure in which we can invest – things like low to no VOC paints and bamboo wood floors – we’ve found an opportunity to live by the anti-cancer book. Complete with new friendships and a very cancer-supportive community this is certainly what appears as one of the four noble truths: nirvana. I’m finding a certain lack of suffering here. To me, who’s always lived by the old cliche the grass is always greener and finding some level of happiness wherever I am, this time of my life comes as something of a surprise to me.
And then there’s my cancer.
I’m reaching out for an exacting of equanimity here. A balance of sadness and happiness. Where suffering becomes the background or the shadow and joy comes forward to the forefront and into the light. It’s so hard. That’s all the language I can use to look for a way to achieve balance of taking care of my physical and emotional heath while not focusing on it. I can liken it to taking a photo of a sunset when you’ve got a person standing in front of the camera lens. I can see the colors blazing in the distance but there’s a big dark presence preventing me from taking in all that beauty.
Because there’s the cancer right in the way.
I hide it well. Sometimes my beloved asks if something is wrong or if I’m angry with him. No honey I’m not. I’m happier with our relationship than any other time in our 12+ years together or any romantic relationship I’ve been in my entire life.
It’s just the cancer getting in my way again.
Here’s a poem I wrote a few weeks ago as my weekly blog bonus. I love the theme of it – it’s tangentially akin to the theme of this blog post. On that note here’s:
Would I be if born a snake
Or bee, or clam, or fish?
Leg less, bloodless, and cold blooded
A thing without future or past.
Without arms to hold us
How do they establish a child’s
First love? Without sounds
Without syllables, no words to wound
With no hands to slap cheeks for the tears?
No false devotion to express and
No arms to commit forged emotion.
Did god know we needed belief?
Maybe words and hands on the end of arms
Beat us to the punch?
Whose guilty fingers purge my throat
To say nothing of love’s remorse.
Outstretched, sewn, and quilted
Receiving dubious mistrust
And soiled gifts of healing.
Arms holding light to beseech me
The creatures run back to the wooded wild.
Any path dark and clouded
Covered with leaves compacted
By nights grand mothers who sneak
By and slither away with our soundless cries
Morays silently drift in shallows,
The pecks of grounded wild turkeys,
The opinions of poisonous black widows
All mothers in the dark shadows of sea, of land, and of twine
Wait to hold their young somehow.
They give what’s needed and then take away
Without a word to convey their warnings.
Compliantly we wait at the forest edge
Huddled alone and cold until
Tonight tar black and frightening
Clears away in the dim light of morning.