Genetic alterations like cleft chins and widows peaks
Clean white teeth and braces,
Blush and pink watermelon lipgloss,
Handlebar mustaches and biker beards
All for nothing now and how ridiculous.
Behind a mask there’s no way
to flash a smile of gratitude to a shop clerk
or for someone’s kindness in holding
open a door.
We look plastic.
Polarized in soundless shock.
The cranes fly overhead in t-formations
migration from and to places I never visited
And now probably won’t either
Come to think about it,
those birds I knew,
where I’ve been basking in year and year outside
Without the warmth in those million year old spaced.
As sounds of the floorboards let us know
Our short winter days draw nearer
The knuckles crack in my hands
Open and closed alone
I am divided by savage time.For Celia
I begin and end with hope. Born, we hope to live a long life. We haven’t a clue as to the concept of “not being” yet. It’s hard not to think about the concept of no longer breathing: rising to the sweet smell of ion charged air after a spring rain. The concept of seasons hasn’t penetrated our small forms yet. Fascinating that the eyes never grow and at birth we grow around our big eyes. Can we see more as our unfettered brains not yet cluttered with fear, with not knowing how we may find another meal. We love our mothers. Maybe because she feeds us. Maybe our primordial love grants us the will to cry out in pain, in hunger, in loneliness. As we grow into full fledged human being do we also grow into beings of more fears?
The “fears that we may cease to be” as John Keats wrote so long ago in his poem of the same title at the ripe age of 24, he’d lived in a time when the average age wasn’t approaching 80 as today in 2021. Or perhaps we grow into our hope. Maybe we hope to find love come to dry our tears from our adult sized eyes. Maybe these eyes bring in the light of hope, like the leaves on a tree draw in the sunshine to grow the fruits and flowers. Our fruits and flowers as human beings, at least for most of us, deliver the nourishment of awareness of the good in the world. Some believe in using fear for gain. My world shrinks to nothing if I hurt even a spider. I cannot imagine the feeling of killing either by my own hand or through my power over the way others think. Like in war or in cults.
If it feels like a broad topic, and it may be, it’s personal, too. What’s eating the United States, and from what I’ve read and seen, the United Kingdom, from the inside? Those who we hired by vote to protect us continue to stand aside watching m violence to drip like sweat from the pores of rioters inside the capitol of the United States. My own eyes were struck with fear as I studied a photograph of a police officer whose hand sat on the back of a riotous angry white man. Outside of the picture, he then entered the speaker of the house’s office and sat with bravado and his feet upon her desk. Within 24 hours he was arrested and given a sentence of just one year. Yet, were a black man, I guarantee he’d be a dead man. Of this I’m quite certain.
Yet there’s too much fear to face the disease of racism in such audacious act of treason. A crime against the state. A crime punishable by death. I’m immoderately unsure he deserves such a dear punishment. The brainwashing and propaganda disseminated by the short lived current administration ramped up many without facts that support the arguments of an unfair, illegal vote count. There’s no evidence as such. My own eyes wept with frustration and fear.
The reality of the COVID19 virus and it’s newly transmuted much more transferable viral brother continues to plague the world – specifically the United States and the UK. The first world countries that quickly gave us the vaccines are also hotbeds of exhausted first defenders and maxed out hospitals. We live in counties, my own Nevada County included as of today, where beds in Intensive Care Units reached 100% capacity and makeshift tents hold the sick and ailing infected by the virus. It’s as though we’re living through a war on our defensible land. A land we never thought we’d need to defend on our own soil.
Breast cancer’s not preventable by a mask. Or by self isolation. Or by remaining alone dying the holidays for a year. But we do this in some cases not of our choosing but because we are treated as though we had COVID19 all along. Our concerns include isolation and uncertainty. The concerns people about of COVID19 too include isolation and uncertainty. Do we believe the lessons of the many will translate into the care of us, the few in comparison, with MBC no matter the cause, our skin color, of socioeconomic positions? No, I doubt it. So there’s a connection between Covid and cancer. We’re doubly afraid to become ill, to be ghosted by former friends and family, to be alone and uncertain as to when we will die? It’s not if but when although the incidence of MBC has shrunk by 1.8% according to the statistics.
This country, is the same in which my own cancer center cannot give me an approximate idea of when I will receive the vaccine. This country where as we watch, we become voyeurs of a kind of war I hope to never see again. I watch with the same eyes I saw my mother bring a spoon to my mouth full of bananas and apple sauce. Such a vast amount of time has passed since I came into being as the Vietnam war started to become a reality. One of my favorite writers probably described it better than anyone. Susan Sontag who wrote “On Photography” and “Illnesses as Metaphor” was
“…probably the most influential writer on the intersection of violence and photography, didn’t buy this argument. With forensic prose, she cut through complacent apologias for war photography and set photojournalistic images of violence squarely in the context of viewers’ voyeurism.”Tejeau Cole, The New York Times Magazine, 24 May 2018
Have we become wide eyed onlookers, ready to lose hope and lives simultaneously as the country must be bribed with stimulus checks like pornography? Have we lost hope in our own ability to find the heavy sadness of mass graves holding the unidentifiable dead who were dropped off at hospitals and found themselves alone, miserable, and dying?
Such feelings of anger well up in my heart: if we had the ability to create vaccinations against a deadly pandemic virus so quickly, what about cancer? Why can’t we put the pharmaceutical community on notice right now and give them the ability to produce an injection against something we supposedly know so much more about? Cancer won’t cause an economic depression. In fact I argue we need cancer to prop up the economy as we require less outputs from the military industrial complex. Who needs to die now in order to inject money into a false economy of unknown and unseen wars? It’s not Iraq or Afghanistan. It’s in my bones. I’m one metastatic cancer patient is worth hundreds of thousands of dollars a year – I read one figure that a metastatic breast cancer patient brings the value of an oncologist to her organization upwards of $600,000 US per year. That’s insanity, statistically speaking. Take a few hours and read through gif following
American Cancer Society’s Facts and Figures 2020 ACS 2020 Fact Book – there’s an obvious problem from the outset. Cancer by definition is a pandemic not treats as such and in my estimation it’s because were worth so much to keep alive. If death is a protest I’d rather not participate. How will you protest our plight? Will our country be well enough to participate in the Die In this year? It do we stand by and watch as we die from what seems to be preventable except in 5-10% that are gene mutations from heredity – and even then is it possible to prevent those people from diagnosis? Here’s a nice neat list pulled together of facts in Breastcancer.org latest statistics:
- About 1 in 8 U.S. women (about 12%) will develop invasive breast cancer over the course of her lifetime.
- In 2020, an estimated 276,480 new cases of invasive breast cancer are expected to be diagnosed in women in the U.S., along with 48,530 new cases of non-invasive (in situ) breast cancer.
- About 2,620 new cases of invasive breast cancer are expected to be diagnosed in men in 2020. A man’s lifetime risk of breast cancer is about 1 in 883.
- About 42,170 women in the U.S. are expected to die in 2020 from breast cancer. Death rates have been steady in women under 50 since 2007, but have continued to drop in women over 50. The overall death rate from breast cancer decreased by 1.3% per year from 2013 to 2017. These decreases are thought to be the result of treatment advances and earlier detection through screening.
- For women in the U.S., breast cancer death rates are higher than those for any other cancer, besides lung cancer.
- As of January 2020, there are more than 3.5 million women with a history of breast cancer in the U.S. This includes women currently being treated and women who have finished treatment.
- Besides skin cancer, breast cancer is the most commonly diagnosed cancer among American women. In 2020, it’s estimated that about 30% of newly diagnosed cancers in women will be breast cancers.
- In women under 45, breast cancer is more common in Black women than white women. Overall, Black women are more likely to die of breast cancer. For Asian, Hispanic, and Native-American women, the risk of developing and dying from breast cancer is lower. Ashkenazi Jewish women have a higher risk of breast cancer because of a higher rate of BRCA mutations.
- Breast cancer incidence rates in the U.S. began decreasing in the year 2000, after increasing for the previous two decades. They dropped by 7% from 2002 to 2003 alone. One theory is that this decrease was partially due to the reduced use of hormone replacement therapy (HRT) by women after the results of a large study called the Women’s Health Initiative were published in 2002. These results suggested a connection between HRT and increased breast cancer risk. In recent years, incidence rates have increased slightly by 0.3% per year.
- A woman’s risk of breast cancer nearly doubles if she has a first-degree relative (mother, sister, daughter) who has been diagnosed with breast cancer. Less than 15% of women who get breast cancer have a family member diagnosed with it.
- About 5-10% of breast cancers can be linked to known gene mutations inherited from one’s mother or father. Mutations in the BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes are the most common. On average, women with a BRCA1 mutation have up to a 72% lifetime risk of developing breast cancer. For women with a BRCA2 mutation, the risk is 69%. Breast cancer that is positive for the BRCA1 or BRCA2 mutations tends to develop more often in younger women. An increased ovarian cancer risk is also associated with these genetic mutations. In men, BRCA2 mutations are associated with a lifetime breast cancer risk of about 6.8%; BRCA1 mutations are a less frequent cause of breast cancer in men.
- About 85% of breast cancers occur in women who have no family history of breast cancer. These occur due to genetic mutations that happen as a result of the aging process and life in general, rather than inherited mutations.
- The most significant risk factors for breast cancer are sex (being a woman) and age (growing older).
In this I shift my hope again. I shift it to the general population and their eyes – the same eyes they’re born with and will die with to my and so many others bodies that have turned against us. Don’t look away. Don’t run when you become aware of a friend or a cousin with metastatic cancer. I leave you with a poem to describe my feelings in this matter.
Beaming with Hope
Hope Leaves on
Lemon trees fruits
Subject to yellow
So one tart section
Bites all the sun.
Drip juices ascetic
The most acidic of
The gods gift to us
Coming forward to trust
The peel’s oil, metal rust
Can take the tin
Cans bring them all back
Go hone a skill
And sip a little water from
I beam with a mess
Of healing light.
I received some, too
Today maybe the perfume
Left by a sweet
Mass, blood in a chalice
I dressed up like a goddess.
Scarred. Interested less
Can I remain in a nest
Like a red robed Robin
Born from blue
Shells that belie my lacking oxygen. On a beach
A great beam of
The lighthouse mirrors
Cut out a collage
Of media mixing
Flies and I file
Away the thinking
I can fix anything
Single file out into
A line we become one
Place where health walks heel to toe.
My place comes
Like everyone’s, eventually.
When can I conquer the enemies?
When does the line stop? What time Will it take up to heal the world?
Without the next answer
Every green sings again
Every blue sleeps again
Every color clears again
Finds its heaven again.
Open mouths breathe in to
Blow out the candle of our spirits.
Our lungs absorb – All the tears
Our hairless heads – All the rain
Our sore mouths – All the laughter
Our frail bones – All the power
Our thin skin – All the weakness
Our open hands – All the dealers
Our empty wallets – All the takers.
The gamblers and the monks
And the lines of the me’s and the you’s
Lose all the freedom.
To know my soul
Existed before I boarded this train:
Crossing borderless countries
I am Aimless and unclothed
And I Break in my body.
There’s no optioning
Not even a
This time I cannot
Work to pay
All the rent.
As a spawn of the dead
A pawn of this life
For what I deplore
And who I defend
Line without any joke
Echoes in lustrous
And up in the
Into those dusty
rafters of hope.
This new year felt awfully late to me. Do you feel like this past year’s already a long time in the past? We hope that every new year, albeit a construct of human needs to mark time of another revolution ‘round the sun, the axis tilted and the earth on its eclipses as far from warmth as we can get having just changed seasons on the winter solstice, we sought to find joy in the chilly night air.
Looking forward we engage in a toast, some with promises to themselves of improvements, some with a toast of bubbly in a champagne glass – “tink” – fireworks, a ball dropping to no one physically in Times Square this year. Perhaps a hug if we were lucky enough to be with another human being at one second after midnight on the cusp of another 12 months. All sorts of celebrations feel long overdue – without a potential date in sight to partake in person in wedding receptions, dinner parties, funerals, religious gatherings, or spiritual circles. Yet our lungs filled with the fresh air of hope, January 1st at 12:01 different come midnight. That’s if we weren’t intubated in some lonely ICU, or without a partner, or a close friend to sit and hear the world sigh. The world didn’t hang a new air freshener on the rear view mirror and the pandemic didn’t change for the better. Unlike Cinderella’s carriage, it instead turned into giant rotting pumpkin filled with rats.
Those carriages pulled up to the castle and out teemed armed vermin in a violent riotous crowd. The rats invaded the castle with their small minds filled with hatred spurred on by misaligned jingoistic propaganda and ugly rhetoric. They left a dead stinking red herring to lay bleeding on Pennsylvania Avenue. Now the whole world smells slightly fishy. Somethings not right, is it?
A big can of Hope – the virtual disinfectant
Yet there’s hope. Hope never dies but like energy changes form. It shifts. Shift happens. I hope the world shifts slightly to allow an immense healing to take place the likes of which no ones ever seen – I can’t imagine another time ever like this one – and I hope it’s an opportunity to rethink our approach to sustainability of every kind: physical, emotional, environmental. And we should not forget. It’s so easy to forget and fall back into old habits. Like resolutions unkept. We have to remember and recall what’s important and as close to reality as we can get.
Two million dead is a hard number to forget isn’t it?
Terminal Cancer, the other pandemic disease
Metastatic cancer doesn’t allow me to forget it’s hiding out in my bones. It jars me awake into the present should I ever forget that my health comes first and that the body I call my own is temporary: a rental in a non rent controlled apartment. At some point it won’t be feasible to live here any longer. It will become a slum. There will be no renovations, no more past due extensions. And my body won’t live up to code standards. I will shift my hope to move on to the next place away from the here and now…
Love and the good grace of the people who support me yet I’ve never met in person are all on my heart this year. Some have died and three women in particular are with me in spirit as I sit in bed with my cat son Simon wishing for sleep to come my way. One friend died out of the blue – she was a vibrant advocate and writer and was giving me some guidance in both areas.
So alas, may 2020 become hindsight and remain in our rear view mirrors as the wheels spin out from the dirt roads onto the pavement. Back in the sunlight and out of the shadows of lies and deceit. Indelibly connected to one another like the sun and truth. The truth be our guide. The sun open our blooms to open to full blossom.
I heard words I knew once were forbidden -
My fortune wasted on life’s misgivings.
Forcing down eight courses, poisonous drink
How the blunt force of words causes us to think
Drowning in the fuel, the entire bottle.
Get in the car lock the doors, choke the throttle.
Drive our team of shining horses farther and faster -
Each whip snap stinging their backs with disaster.
Delete my pages, these ugly words.
Tossing them like breadcrumbs to the birds.
Release from their cages hungry beasts,
Entice them out with bloody raw meat.
Into my neck a needles plunged -
My voice so hoarse, the cat’s got my tongue.
Cook the bones until they’ve boiled.
Stained by trash, our clothing’s soiled.
Lay down gently, close your eyes,
Focus on the breath now say goodbye.
Softly lay your head down and hear the whispers,
'From every woman: born my sisters.'