Traversing my inner space wearing the lens of metastatic disease, my inner eye wanders into dark places at times. The glasses have me reading invisibilities into ideas that have no real importance. Ideas such as what my life’s purpose what could I possibly serve the world when at the moment I was diagnosed with #metastatic breast cancer three years ago, my needs far outweigh my ability to give. Many days my questions return only an inner sigh of response. My contributions and defining myself and my roles becomes so foggy, so unclear to me.
Tag: cancer husband
The Gracie Foundation – a gift from heaven from a woman who left a legacy of love and a little treat of relief to those of us finding our own way through metastatic breast cancer. Nominations for the care package at www.thegraciefoundationinc.org
How does one learn to reason with depression? I’d like to share with you a story about a confused partner who after the passing of her arbitrary three-year deadline falls into s state of incredible aftermath. She unreasonably and unfortunately becomes inconsolable with wave after wave of ugly accusations hurled from across a house she lives in with this depressed man who she no longer knows, or even knows what she feels for him anymore.
Weather and evening corralled the horses inside.
Our engines idled, cooled, then died.
Suddenly yet expectantly (as ice or apple pie)
Boring holes in us with collapsible eyes —
Like summer left us in an awful rush,
So the bent boys gasped
As tall awkward girls cried.
From Werner Herzog’s remake with Klaus Kinski as Nosferatu, based mostly on the silent Murnau adaptation of the Stoker novel, I leave you with a quote, and one that says maybe it’s not Lucy with whom I should resonate, but the monster himself:
“To be unable to grow old is terrible… Death is not the worst…”
Depression and cancer. The locks to my prison, to which keys do not exist; there’s no cure, and there’s no future with happiness together as a team, the team I really counted on – but as Einstein said not all things that can be counted, should.
He called it the longest goodbye. When my husband came to me in the kitchen he looked fore lorn, bright blue eyes spilling clear Caribbean blue waters down the white smooth skin of his cheeks. Waves hitting the sand. His emotions, usually saved for “some other time,” overwhelmed and weighed heavy on me and pulled