A mirror can’t judge you
Nor can it lie, it hangs up deliberating
In a box without jury or law.
I tell my side and can swear
On a stack of miracles
As a morning sleepy refugee
Belonging nowhere today
I get dressed for the trial anyway.
Showered, shorn and bowels empty
I’m a traveler brushing her hair
Singing, humming, bustling
Like yesterday but no chair
Awaits me at any desk, no rustling
Paperwork into the corrals
Where the palominos ran.
I’m instead looking at four walls
Painted dove gray and orange.
The mind of an orangutan
Looking at the empty crates
No more books no more tape
No more staples, no more breaks.
Water coolers generate condensation
Leaving now your conversations
Gossips of Karen’s and Kate’s
Sales pitched over the plate
By Pete’s and Paul’s and the VPs.
Why I’ve never smoked
But I now show signs of
Someone older with a gash
Between my eyes
As though a killer with an axe
Took me for a blind ride by surprise.
Catch your breath, still slapping
An oak desk or a glass table
From a joke we all heard a hundred times
The overripe punchlines left
A prime meridian of jokes
The longitude of laughter
Down to the frown ground into
Cleft chins and Adam’s apples.
The mirror round, a circle nothing
Special, or even social.
Sorely left concave and convex
Not impressing or annoying
Not beautiful but attractive
Not pretentious, but on reflection
Of one more than anything
You knew about everyone else
All the knowns and even the odds
Of the unknown futures. The past
Imperfect and Impossible still
Nothing of a future state
Meant to somebody
Who once held weight around here.
They saw your signal
At the stop sign Not a zodiac but
A night light spotting by accident
Before it happened making
A living beyond killing as a comic
The twist of a cosmic relief made to
Unsteady the hands the end of a pair
Of arms of two feet right in front
Of your very eyes moments unfolded
In sheets on a bed waiting for you
White and Egyptian. Enter with
A card key and a new friend.
She’s ready, willing like Able to Cain.
Sisyphus or Thor your
Next door neighbors. During the silent
Years you never knew me, the unicorn.
“She found her horn in the yard,”
Everyone knows. It was a joust
From beating her head against
A brick house. The place
Where now justice ahead of us
Made a left and t-boned into
The passenger, dead by impact.
Tomorrow’s special the guilt
Pie. Eaten a la mode with sprinkles.
Sailing across the bench seat into
Your empty children
Lying to you not strapped in
Tricked by slight of unhanded
Sighs of relief knowing why
The cage door open
And the bird sings yet never
Leaves. Unclipped wings don’t try
Wet with sea spray don’t dry.
Good luck take care and these
Twice a day during questioning
By a peace officer without any
Tickets to the ride to the station
Where I have the right
Go ahead make a call. What
Number - call Pi, or infinity.
Like those wild eyes I saw in the
Mirror just this morning . Inert
Inverted like my thoughts thatched
In a fence around the old dog run.
You’re not really free, never were .
Nobody has a will or a right to the truth
The mirror always lies and hangs
Me upon the wall where I got framed.
This third week of January 2021 brought about change. The one we’ve sat in our homes waiting with a national- dare I say global – collective held breath for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris to take the reigns out of the hands of a thief. After four ugly years of a petty loose cannon, from whom I hope never to see on the public’s big screen again. But hope is a fickle funny emotion. Still…
My small world, too, experienced a very strange week full of let downs and lift ups, full of mourning, and as a victim of public gaslighting in which the context did not distinguish itself until it took on a life of its own as the person exhibited classic narcissistic behaviors.I must have repressed response triggers dating from my childhood via my mother who herself had low level narcissistic personality disorder, mostly jealousy and selfishness mixed in with a sprinkle of well-hidden immaturity. We’d have celebrated her 80th birthday on the 31st had she not succumbed to Alzheimer’s.
Thick as a fog the sabotage took over the sunny afternoons in a healing circle I belonged to for the last four months. And healing happened in a very loving and kind, warm and receptive environment using Zoom. Zoom, the latest video group call application works fairly well as you can be a part of the Brady Bunch, yet with the ability to speak and with far better clothing choices. There’s no maid named Alice in a healing circle, but there’s the parallel of a kinder and gentler less misogynistic mom and dad roles in the Host and Guardian. All of this in the name of full transparency of course is available publicly through commonweal.org or Healing Circles Global. Nothing should have alerted us either since confidentiality outside of the circle is tantamount to its ability to achieve what it sets out to do.
A deluge of emails alerted me and all involved to the escalating circumstance that grew in dramatic undercurrents until I drowned in a tidal wave of someone’s need for recognition and to become the host. I was asked my preferred role – my email cc’ing everyone as requested of us basically said – either is fine, let’s see if it can keep its momentum and if not we can revisit in a few weeks. In a healing circle, each person enters a circle to be held in the loving arms of all participants. The roles of host and guardian no more and no less than having decent intuition, sharing of themselves as they choose as they’re there first and foremost for the same reason we’re all there. They also are adept in using prompts and asking questions, the guardian keeps time, and both insure there’s no cross talking or interrupting. It’s an intuitive role in that we use silence as a healing tool and to know when to call for a short one is up to everyone and anyone but that’s it. You really need to be sensitive and have a good gut for these things, I don’t purport to have either but I enjoy it and have had the fortune of some very wise women to bring out the emotional stuff that our strange days created a big bullhorn for all of our souls with Covid and being in lockdown, we need one another more than ever.
What really shook me and finally got a rise out of my emotional equanimity: she used my metastatic breast cancer against me. And of course this weighs heavy on my heart and of course comes up in my sharing. But I shall never speak for anyone’s decision to talk about what they will or whether it has a place in a healing circle or not. If I understand them correctly wherever there is healing there is a healing circle. It can be between one person and another it can be between 234 or 12. Certainly there’s a limit because time is short usually they run about 90 minutes. There’s no power plays. Everyone leads everyone helps themselves but does not try to help anybody else. We come to circle to fix only ourselves. Sadly our circle couldn’t hold as a result, and I won’t forget any of the lessons of the circle or the collapse.
It is in our heads, afterall
As the subject of this post indicates I believe cancer of all kinds – brain, breast, metastatic, inoperable, terminal – has roots in our heads. The psychosocial influences of stress on our bodies. Childhood traumas that cause fight or flight responses. The feelings of insecurity and basic need inadequacies that lead to less than fairy tale adulthood’s.
The fact is, reality of course is all in our heads. In many ways cancer is our personal reality. Cancer we know from long term studies, can be agitated from our cells into real tumors by psychological pain and suffering inflicted in childhood. In fact, listening to Breast Cancer Action’s most recent podcast, there are some incredible statistics on adverse childhood events, or ACEs and the incidence in fact is very much connected, enough to become concerned with my own health and its roots in my childhood abandonment by my father and later my mother.
In this recent January ‘21 episode, the guest, Dr. Barbara Cohn, found in her research some very compelling and statistically significant connections between emotional and environmental stressors during formative years on a woman’s propensity for breast cancer. Maybe it’s not as much in our genes but in our minds we should do a deeper analysis to find the root causes for what she found by way of looking at, for instance, women who lost both parents before the age of 21. I pulled my car over to take notes I was so dumbstruck by the evidence. Evidence that at a gut level I knew from the day of my diagnosis that my past had come full circle to try to take me down with it. Wherever my parents are now, I was surely headed too soon, but based in my reality I also felt it has as much to do with the other autoimmune physical problems that beleaguered my health from my first ulcer at 12.
In fact during my respites at the Cancer Help Program through Commonweal, through which I came to find out about Healing Circles (talk about circling the square this week!), healing our childhood psychological wounds to get to the bottom of not just the potential root causes of cancers but healing our souls to heal our bodies. This very concept is a focus of the week long cancer help program. It’s central to our life extensions as I find peace with and forgive both my parents and myself. The women who lost their parents to death I think likely mirror my own abandonment by both my parents before I turned 14. And here’s what the study found:
- A 4 1/2 fold increase in breast density
- A 24.5 fold increase in HER2 positive types
- An 8.5 fold increase in de novo metastatic breast cancer
I encourage you to listen to the episode which you can find on their web site Breast Cancer Action .
My Father’s Daughter
There’s also the kind of cancer that starts in your head and will eventually kill you. The inoperable kind. The kind that my father died from 13 years ago. He would’ve been 80 today January 23, 2021. But he’s no longer here it was all in his head.
The surgeon couldn’t remove the entire tumor without encroaching on his ability to care for himself. Only able to remove half of his mitochondrial tumor my dad knew that I understood what he meant by being “unable to wipe his own ass.” I did. Yet he came out of anesthesia not in his own head. He became the antithesis of himself – mean, nasty, yelling. Everything I knew about him became moot for about two years. That was all in his head, too. My brother and father never got along well. That is before 18 hours with his skull opened up and brain exposed to the air, the penultimate in compromising the blood brain barrier.
I have a friend who taught me the differences between metastatic cancer and in operable terminal cancer. Both still can be in your head. Then there’s the kinds of things that are in your head that really bother you about having cancer. Knowing it’s in your body. Knowing in the case of MBC it can reach your brain. And Brian metastasis is one of the things that scares metsers most.Then there are the strange things about having metastatic breast cancer. It’s not wanting to tell people about your cancer or to talk too much about cancer. It’s deciding whether you want to use Twitter, or Facebook, or blog post, or Instagram, or Vlog, or any kind of social media to tell your story. Or perhaps you don’t ever publicly tell your story. That’s in your head as well for you have to determine how much you want to talk about how personally want to go and certainly how much you want other people to know.
That’s what my week was about. How much do I want other people to know?
In a support group you only hope that the environment will be, well, supportive. That the people in your group will hold your innermost hopes, fears, and dreams confidential. My confidence was broken this week. But as it turns out it was also repaired by people who truly care about my well-being. The person who broke my confidence was not a friend of mine. She was merely someone I knew that was in the support group that was called a healing circle. Healing circles are meant to be just that: when you are “in circle” you are there to see and speak what’s on your heart. What’s going on. It’s not just for cancer patients it’s for people with a beating heart -for everyone. This particular group focused on uncertainty during COVID-19. And that’s doubly difficult for people with metastatic cancer because in many of us are immune systems are in the trash. We can’t go anywhere, we can’t really see anyoneAnd it’s even difficult for us to get the treatments that we need, the life-saving treatment, the clinical trials have been canceled. But we have to stay positive don’t we?
And that’s all in our heads.
I attended a new circle today thats on writing through COVID19. We were given a list of word prompts and I chose “sanctuary” for my prompt. It led to this raw, unedited poem. I am sharing this with you, dear readers, because at times we all must show the real self as what’s in our head and our hearts, just as it spills out onto the page. Unburdened by the need for perfection we find ourselves in the sense of what’s true and real and thus sacred. Allow no one, especially not for the sake of ego, rob you of your truth. This, as the Victor Frankl quote that touched me so deeply today and sits at the head of this blog post, is where the imperative to find deeper meaning commences. Sometimes sharing of ourselves in finding our own meaning we can join one another in finding common ground. Right now it’s as important if not more than ever to find common ground to heal our divides - between one another and within our own heads. Yes, it’s been quite a week, for me, for us, for our community.
In each of us lives a kingdom of hope. But may no single individual or ideology become so self important as to rise to the level of a self proclaimed monarch again.
Our house holds all I love
Yet The door is open
For there’s always room
For more -one more, many more
Love knows no bounds
Love is my sanctuary.
My door is open
Although the world’s
Closed for now, anyway.
The owls ask who
Who are you
Who is home
Who is gone?
The doves cry
Cooing in mourning
For those who have gone
The afternoons bring
Light casting long shadows
Through the crystals
In the heart of the home
The kitchen fills with
Red, orange yellow, green, blue indigo, ultraviolet
Repeated and repeated
In attempts to draw for me
A time long ago
Or so it seems
That I could see the rain
Refracting the light
In the aftermath of
Storms. We’ve weathered
So many storms
Do you want to be
A new color?
Does the owl know
It’s brown and white?
Did the dove have any
Rejection of the black woodpecker
Making his way up the
And wearing a headdress
Of a hunter?
Did she know he made her bed
Inside that tree?
If the mountain lion
Or the white tailed deer
Or my skunk, fat as he is wide
Only knew we were all so very afraid
Would they want to create
A sacred space
Or a sanctuary
Would the owl ask again
Who is it?
My doors remain wide open
Yet no one comes in
No one leaves
The spring led to fall
And we all missed the
We skipped the routine
And we all call in well
To work not sick for once
We are celebrating
Not a return from illness
Isn’t this the way life should be?
Cant I say it’s a beautiful day today
I’m calling in for my sanity
I’m not waiting until I lose it anymore
Can I fall on the ground
Out of breath
From dancing. My lab is
My living room my tools
The colors of the crystal
Refractions of the long
Fat rays of sun
Or so I could stand here and ask why? Why me? Why us? Why?
I prefer my owls quest to find out who I am.
I prefer the smells of the skunk
Who came to the open door
And waddles away with a bright red tomato.
I got a fab surprise when i left my appointment with my radio oncologist today. Look at all that amazing makeup – very high quality and non toxic. I highly recommend going to http://www.igopink.org not my favorite name but i can live with The Breast Cancer Charities of America and the booklet inside is even more valuable with a list of financial resources:
Assistance for everything from transportation to non medical bills to physician to wigs to copays. I rate this a 10 out of 10 even the silly pink wayfair sunglasses are coated with UV eye protection great for the glove box just in case. For anyone needing a little pick me up to paying your phone bills.
I also left with four dot tattoos on my ripped (haha) tummy so the radiation therapist nurses know where to point the beam. Turns out the Verzenio is holding back the L4 tumor which has not grown at all since I started in June. My 10 treatments begin October 5th for two straight weeks. The oncologist will meet with me each Wednesday and again after the final MRI scan – no contrast required. Sigh. My fears are ablated now onto the pesky tumor. Stupid cancer. I hate you.