In which our heroine finds herself clutched in the monster’s filthy, razor sharp claws, afraid for her life. Introduction: The scripting process begins and ends This narrative slowly opens and possibly took several years for the writer to realize the finished script. Editing the story of a life continues beyond publication, past the timeline of
Tag: metastatic cancer blog
My daily meditation for finding peace and light, even through darker days of physical and emotional pain.
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.
My patience left my body and vocabulary not so long ago. It buried itself in our unorganized two car garage near the washer and dryer. It’s adverb “patiently” waiting and hiding from other eyes under some mildewed, smelly step kid laundry I refuse to wash after two years.
A blue velvet bag opened by this single Movement – her hand reached Into the spaciousness above And all stars’ light unpacked, and Secreted away in drawer full of daydreams. Now the seashore glistens With the promise of night, and Eternally luminous With all the befores, And all the ever afters, Moving our millions of tears Into a single smiling river. “Goodnight my beautiful bodies,” And we fly away home, laughing.
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.
Some of us arrive here for a respite from of a world severed from it’s once well mapped out future, now thrust into the cancer culture where we’ve a lot to share with each other. Care giver or cancer survivor we can walk hand and hand. We step to a rhythm of head nods of recognition as we see of ourselves in one another. That circle containing every one of us who still proves that we can live on as a reluctant card carrying member of Club Cancer.
Churchill knew that bravery comes not only from a wellspring inside, but from the community with whom we share a common connection. In his case the whole of Britain, in my case a small subset of the blogosphere.
#Stage4cancer brings to mind a place a movie might portray. For instance the inescapable slow walking monster approaches my house and I hear the ugly abhorrent thing rapping, scraping on my door. Perhaps, more subtly, one dark and stormy night, the wind kicks up frightening me with a tree branch running its claws along my windows. Am I dreaming in color of the darkest places my consciousness has to offer on tonight’s mind menu?
And of our own self images, they’re not influenced by much positive representations. Especially those of us at stage IV. The stage no one wants to know much about at all. We, the misfits, don’t measure up to Santa’s ultra high standards, and become the toys left behind on Christmas Eve. Weepy-eyed, we stand shivering from the cold, waving goodbye to the tail end of a sleigh, to Santa Clause’s fat ass, and reindeer tail lights.