From Xena’s Blog to Us – Dogs and Cats As Santa’s Helpers

This video has become a tradition for the Holiday Season at We Hold These Truths To Be Self-Evident . Hope you enjoy! Be safe. Wear a mask.

Dogs and Cats As Santa’s Helpers

You must watch this great video – dog lover or cat lover you’ll all love this fun holiday cheer. And don’t we all need some after this last four crazy years?

Blogging for My Life

Fast. Faster. Gone in a moment. Sometimes before we realize how much faster cancer cells move than our bodies can fend off. We look in the mirror and watch our faces change. We feel our skin and it feels as though it’s not our own. Our breasts change in size, shape, and functional capabilities. Instead of life giving joyous appendages they’ve become hired guns out to kill the very support system for which they once worked. Some of us never had the joy of motherhood bestowed upon us by nature’s design. And that’s okay because we still, as women, must become the bringers of life to those we love. Our purposes shift but not without our reason d’etres in tow.

Eventually we all know our consciousness ends and the world we lived in becomes one in which our deaths are survived by those who once cohabitated and collaborated in it beside us. I refer to all of those who share in our experience either in person or now, those who live virtually close to us and some of whom equal in importance for our lives to ease down slowly when the dying of the body disallows physical contact for varying degrees of importance in reason. We show love and support regardless of the miles of distance between our physical selves. How fortunate to be alive in the networked age of innocence? Insouciance isn’t an option here because in matters of life and death the difference is so great that indifference would become a criminal act against humanity. And I’m not being tongue in cheek. It’s truly that important to the isolated percentage of us with cancers that have gone rogue in our bodies. The 30% of the 40% who have had cancer in the past. Then those like me who “present” right at the stage of the spread from an originating tumor. It’s not our fault. It’s not karmic retribution. It’s 90% environmental and 10% genetic and we never saw the bus coming before it hit us.

We share our inner most selves here. The kind of personal stories once so tightly held to the vest we wouldn’t share them with our best friends sometimes. And yet here we splay ourselves out with words rather than looks or hugs or facial expressions of joy or pain. Yet we have the protection of how much we allow out into the privately public eye, and feel more secure as people become friends who we absolutely love and appreciate as we would a friend who lives within driving distance.

Given this caveat: ours is a false senses of security since that security really is just a matter of how much or how little we are willing to share of our own story. Albeit our stories are without the input of those of whom we may speak, of those who saved us, made us happy, and loved us. In addition we may choose to relate our devastation over those who hurt us, make us feel shitty, or something as bad as making us so upset we would rather lose consciousness than get metaphorically beaten down towards the bottom of of some common unknown. In the instant we publish ourselves in a blog post we open ourselves up to scrutiny fearlessly hoping for understanding and love in response to our cries and laughter to our humorous rants.

In our most intimate and interesting posts we open up like bodies under the sharp knives of a small town morgue’s medical examiner. We let the light shine right near our dearest most personal stories under the eyes of people who need to know we are out here for reasons of solidarity around the topics of cancer, dying, and death. That last post on my blog may be by the very person who I talk about who could not handle watching my life slip away and who treated me like shit because out of love they couldn’t find a way home again from the hospital to be by our sides through the most difficult things we’ve ever been through.

The death of me isn’t the true death of my story anymore left to those who outlived me to tell anymore. Better yet, even after I’ve lost physical consciousness my stories can help those who get even better medicines than were available to me to learn what it meant to have metastatic cancer prior to the breakthrough that saved them but missed me and others like me by a few years, months or worse, days. Here’s what it used to look like to walk in these shoes when our diagnosis of stage IV is a death sentence. A perpetual march to the surge of tests and chemicals until no more can extend our life anymore and we must enter the limbo state if not knowing quite how long our bodies can contain the faster growing cancer cells.

The living go on as we go to sleep and one day our consciousness doesn’t return from rest. It’s in the spaces between existing and not existing where we live all the time. It never leaves – “it” meaning the knowing our mortality before we reach the finish line. Every day actions and activities once just ordinary become extraordinary. Our bodies are not ourselves but become the very enemies we dread in a dark alley alone at night facing down an armed assassin. Though it’s certainly been a frightening place to live for so long now, I’ll take it over not seeing another black calla lily or great redwood tree. I’d take that alley fight over never feeling a real hug again or the warmth of a body – friend or lover – as you sit comfortably next to one another critiquing a film’s bad editing or gasping at the sounds of a commonly loved piece of music.

I cannot believe all of us are here now – reading each other and loving each other and opening and closing like the rains hands in the ee cumming’s poem. No one not even the rain has such small hands. No wonder it resonates with so many people in love. There’s a universally understood unknown that makes no sense yet makes all the sense in the world.

And by god I know if you’re reading this you know exactly what I mean.

All my love,

Ilene

Op-Ed: Regarding Cancer and Making Personal Connections

My dear friends,

I’ve received so many amazing letters from people who read my blog or found me through another online channel like my Etsy shop, YeuxDeux Vintage, or on Instagram or Twitter or Facebook. They read about my diagnosis and my current life and find common ground, and I’m honored to communicate with people who were touched enough by my life to personally reach out. I appreciate their candor and I am especially humbled by the emotional outpourings of some of the communications I receive. Unnecessarily, their email begins with an apology for a “stranger” so openly sharing their experiences with me. But are we really strangers?

It’s impossible for me to conceptualize the idea of a stranger. If you believe as I do that we are all made of the same “stuff” the universe is born from, then we are all part of a single infinite family. I’m very much Jungian in my spiritual beliefs. On the other hand, my father, who studied Freudian psychoanalysis and was an atheist, never appreciated much about my spiritualistic tendencies. Jung’s theory of synchronicity certainly supports my belief that we meet people when the right time and space collide, however our acquaintance comes to fruition be it virtual or face to face.

I’ve learned that the people I meet virtually share my own philosophies and align with my experiences far more frequently than a smaller circle of people in my immediate geography. Makes sense mathematically – there’s nearly 8 billion of us globally and only a few hundred thousand around me. I have also decided to lay bare my personal life on my blog. As a part of the confessional nature of my writing, my pain and my emotional turmoil make my the most private inner world available to those who were heretofore unknown. Some with cancer, breast or metastatic or other forms, some care givers to those with diseases of the mind and the body, some creative writers, and some lives carry emotional similarities to mine.

Anyone who decides to engage with me receives a very dear gift in my response. My words are wrapped with care and a certain kind of love that’s unheard of where I currently reside. Still, I find isolation in my life with cancer.

For instance, last week I could not stop thinking about my mortality. How could I find a way not to ruminate as my three year diagnosis anniversary in my rear view mirror and oncology appointments and chemo and other therapies in the windshield looking at the unknown duration of my life on the road ahead of me. I snapped at my husband for his glaring lack of celebrating life’s time markers with me. He instead ignores them as a way of ignoring what I’m coping with primarily alone. In fact there is no more time left to avoid celebrating cancerversaries, birthdays, and anniversaries. He’s very good at disguising his sadness with annoyance, using my disease, my side effects, and my cash flow as excuses. Such bullshit.

We are both aware of his avoidance. He has yet he to open his heart, to 0 —-0–ÿh0is true empathy, or allow my state of being to enter his consciousness… without relying on such lame excuses. I too wonder if the overwhelming amount of crap piled up between us is surmountable, and the task ahead staggers my mind. I wonder if we can ever find new footing on which we can look through the same windshield from the same vehicle to make this trip together. Yet he cannot completely get his mind to wrap around a tremendous daily uncertainty. It’s all too much for someone who thrives on order.

This may provide some insight as to why I’m happy to find the better part of my human condition and to find connectedness where and when it presents itself. I find peace with all that life’s delivered on my doorstep, whether or not I order it from the infinite universal catalogue of “Oh My God.” There’s so much complexity to a life, irrespective of whether one finds themselves with a cancer diagnosis. By the time we reach 50 the explosion of our entire life’s plan is the last thing we expect.

My plans got blown to bits but heart remains solid. So, keep those cards and letters coming my friends, keep them coming.

With love,
Ilene
Head Driver
The CancerBus

P.S. Sorry it’s been a while since my last post. My minds been occupied with heavy things and I’ve tried to pay better attention to my relationship to insure it’s survival. As my friends, I’m sure you understand.