Tag: self worth

Eventide

Riding passenger side snapping right,
I’m down in front stealing long exposures.
From the back seat our youth sits
Mocking us with instant polaroids.
Destroyed pictures of minutes and memory
Precious and precarious slip a stone
At once here and at once gone.
Right under the driver breaks hard and higher
Up another mile, silently stealing all we pass.
As if it meant nothing, had no value.
Yet we never stop to salute the flowers –
All wilds and yellows and purples.
The foothills’ shoulders grow peonies
Upon sunshine golden with military ranks.

How jagged time?
We spend ours climbing again as
Eventide approaches us.
Stealing the light
Squinting and teasing Every photographer’s eye.
The lens escapes the fight as fists fly
Above us rung the first punch
Headliners: the over-real versus the unbelievable.
Then we drop down tearing around
The Summit dragging the day with us.
With us flat then right over on the side.
Buckshot sprays whitetail from
Underneath the wheels,
My skin and bones chill fast underneath
Blankets just a quarter mile thin –
Count the microclimates in a 14 mile exposure.
My imagined assignment, anyway.

Inertia now driving our ascension
Finally dousing my focus.
Yet I am pacified by
Deep coastal royal blue velvet,
And by the courtly cape
Of dense silver fog.
Trees, reach in and take my attention
Lost in the sky and yet at home.
Away with the little brick foxes
Already started by the drooling hounds,
Running in distant golden broken lines
Shrinking to a pointed index
Finger of bent redwood lumber.
Penciled between the knotted trees
Escaping our eyes
They write letters to us
To one another, to anyone.
I imagine the trees alone love themselves.
Writing in dead languages those
Modern towers of Babylon
Without oral tradition
No monks or followers to take dictation
The mighty ones tie rings around
Paper and papyrus of their own making.
They, like me, can write their own stories.

Distant deamons dance to the music of the eventide,
Whose eardrums thump and pop from slight descents.
Mercies clear the stares and the macabre glances.
And up ahead the night hides just around
The voluptuous Earth’s curves.
Yet she shakes off the road upon her hip
Langushing and lounging
Laughing at all the forsaken highways.

You snap me awake.
My hypnotic state undone
By our quick duel and I, only me –
I roll one window down
With enough sense to know
The party orange of evening presents
A moment for exposure
Showing the night undone
By the simplest flash
As we find a space and stall the motor,
King and queen of the hills
Announced by snare drums and trumpets.
Goodbye, twisted bruised skin of eventide.
Eventide, goodbye.

And now, Ms. Cancer and Mr. Depression

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 the rabbit hole and finds herself staring at a 40-car pile up and the unenviable clean up of the bloody aftermath. She unreasonably and unfortunately becomes inconsolable with wave after wave of false 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.

Don’t take the bait. Walk away. Leave. For an hour, a week, or…

If it were only that easy. You know who you are – partners of the dysfunctional. But add a little metastatic cancer to the mix…my shoulders are killing me under the weight of it all. I’m sorry if I come across as confusing, but this whole crazy dysthymic depression without an end in sight is confusing.

I’ve finally helped him to treatment. We, well more like he, vomited the angry bitter disgust of a man who simply wanted to raise his two sons across a 2.5 hour session of exhausting couples counseling with my psychologist. She, by the way had breast cancer, can provide him with a helpful view from within should he inquire. He spilled tears and guts for 95% of the session, at the end of which I said he may be better off getting a bit of help for himself or I didn’t feel we’d make the progress we’d hoped for. He immediately went on the defense and the doctor came to mine and remarked, can’t you see she’s very concerned and wants to reconvene when you’ve gotten through a bit of your own healing? He could not disagree.

I’ve read countless books on the topic. NAMI.org is a web site full of great information for you as a depressive’s care giver. All very helpful.

Here’s a few titles available on Amazon and through kindle to keep the costs down:

Talking to Depression: Simple Ways To Connect When Someone In Your Life Is Depressed https://www.amazon.com/dp/B002DYMB1M/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_OPHwAbK3Z6EC

Depression Fallout: The Impact of Depression on Couples and What You Can Do to Preserve the Bond https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0012GTZBG/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_ZQHwAbH1P5EGN

When Depression Hurts Your Relationship: How to Regain Intimacy and Reconnect with Your Partner When You’re Depressed https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00HZ9SA92/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_tRHwAb7H1451X

When Someone You Love is Depressed https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01H0IGJIQ/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_TRHwAbDTCFKWT

I Don’t Want to Talk About It: Overcoming the Secret Legacy of Male Depression https://www.amazon.com/dp/B000FC0Q0C/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_m3HwAbA93R7H9

The confusing days in the life….

When he asked me what time it was I was holding a stack of books and I said that it’s not too late just a second to look at my watch and this was what caused tonight’s major smack down. He’s called me a bitch for two days, running tests to see how I’m going to react to his nasty new nomenclature for me, similar to a teenager cursing in front of his parents. Yet I embarrassed him.

Apparently I’m the one who needs hospitalization and help and that he, “knows what’s going on here.” I ruin everything night after night with my “selfish shit” and do my own thing. My Etsy online shop and writing are more important to me than having a good relationship with him. Yet, it’s all I can do to keep from losing my own mind to the loneliness and isolation of cancer.

I’m somehow playing a game with him and somehow it’s my fault; apparently I’m the root cause of his problems. I tell him that nearly every night he’s laid here leaving me alone and now he’s saying that’s not true that I’m the one who has ignored him. A new critique appears in the repertoire: I’m an Intellectual bully and he does not want to be a victim anymore. Too embarrassed to even suggest anything resembling sex to him anymore, he’s barked back, “the only thing you’re even interested in is sex.”

No, I’m interested in happiness and I love him enough to stay. He also knows I’ve not the physical or financial resources to leave. There’s days when his light comes on and his blue eyes sparkle and shine like two stars in the sky. Come on you, just wake up and shine with me for a little while and let’s shut this nightmare down. It’s never very much about sex, is it. Love in all its permutations requires a cooperation of high and low and mid range notes all beating in time to the same heart. Does cancer extract my heart from my body for study by science and remain in a clear beaker on a dusty shelf behind an outdated computer book from 1999? No, not this time.

He said he wants me here and he loves me, but answers in vagaries when I ask for examples or specifics. As he retorts, more vague statements such as how I always criticize him. I never say anything positive. All he does is help me but I do not let him help me. Each and every time I ask for his help he’s got more important things to do, ignores me, or just sleeps the day away. My very favorite tactical maneuver is to keep me quiet by calling me a nag. I “nag nag nag all the time.” He said he gave himself up and he made that mistake because he thought it was the right thing to do for me. However it cannot possibly be true since I’m not worth it. At least not according to the oxymoronic verbal diarrhea spewing at me night and day.

I ask him what he means by anything he says, yet he won’t tell me. He said he misses himself more then I can ever miss him. This is a wonder because I’ve been mourning him for over three years. I am being crushed under the weight of his depression. My loneliness and frustration are at an all time high. He is starting to tell me how he can’t get anything from me, I have nothing he wants or anything that is valuable to gain from me. He gives, all he does is give and I cannot give anything worthwhile to the relationship so why don’t I just stop fucking up a good thing and just shut up?

Okay.

Maps and Legends

My epic signed by blue,
Pencils edited, erased.
Pages loosened and flew,
White winged birds sung,
Tightened claws bound to lines,
Snap and fly to inner space.

Shortened pagination,
Politely taken wayward
A palace ‘tross seaward.
My imagination skips,
Hissing gently, a light kiss,
Skip the lights aquatic,
Swan dive into the record.
Hole round against,
Metal and rusted center,
End over a feather,
A light in a jet stream.

Dripping ink and rain,
The last page set,
Down in a spring,
Slowly changing everything.
My books marked still,
On page one. Your laughter,
Soaked and heavy with disaster,
Sitting in the oak’s shade,
You kiss my nose and mark,
With cooled breasts. Wonderful
Of you. A park and your hand,
Reaches to shade your face,
As we read from the book
Of the dead and avoided,
The looks of their eyes,
Ashsmed and exploited.
Slaves and a haurcut.

You forgot.
Cash piles stashes,
Ashtrays and snug graves.
We all fall down.
The ground grows smaller,
As I pass the tree line,
Bangs on the Earth,
Becoming her daughter.
Funny to stand today,
Eclipsing the sun,
Looking down?
Avoiding blind faith,
Pin hole in a box,
Gentle and round.
Protect the last epoch,
Hidden in a rainstorm.
Injustice of ghost town.
What substance, space
She left us, just as wraith.

Half a Block Away

There is no greater sorrow than to recall the misery in time we were happy
– Dante

A belligerent handshake, a reluctantly shared cab.
“You know where to let me out?” Your smile, a dagger,
Mouth unwrapping secrets, your sleeves full of cards.
My stomach twists into a gilded fist, so hard,
Throwing a kiss, missing me, you stagger like a park drunk.
In contretemps to your sadness beleaguered and deflected,
Reflecting my resistance on thick plexiglass between us.

Silly, futile shakers who still Tango, with tight hands I slump over your shoulder cold as a rag doll.
Ridiculous. A slipknot stitching me together, jerking me up and over.
You sit me up down here, and I slouch over a stool, nearly fainting, falling, failing.
A light switch flipped peeling myself off your back, We heard lowing cows in the beer soaked yellow fields,
So you  drive me up to the meadows.
Somewhere, the bags of nothing, value of rice flour.
White, like a spit full,of pigs playing poker.

It’s a funny to hear you laughing at jokes older than
Chicago’s elevated trains and trades slid down so torrid.
You hysterical fowl, scornful defenders of anarchy and faith stop. They take a quick look at me,
Face fell first, my cheek on the dry floorboards.
So cheaply made – she’s broken but a workhorse, so you spend less overall.
My face looks like an unbaked raw pie, a bargain.
As my eyes search in vein for a sliver of sky to take me away.
I cooked myself dry from the hot rays and heard,
“She doesn’t know. She’s not worth a dollar but some schmuck secretly paid.”
Her flesh white and the other, a pink piglet that braces itself,
She then becomes a fertile delicate lily. And no mud, no vase, no shelf, in the flesh.

Twisted into aching, she hurts on the gray cold of concrete.
Twenty-four lines back out west, a speechwriter took his holiday.
Filibuster and revolution on the kitchen floor,
Swinging doors evacuate eight, or maybe 12, but I recall the 64th.
Play it with emotion, singing a cappella of coarse.

Extract your lists. Add the new potion —
Keep it simple, no paralysis, you of weak notion.
Now how to explain your remiss?
Who laughs at love’s sanguine languishing sarcophagus,
They soon find themselves falling far down below –
Grace on a sky high alabaster precipice.

I can’t trace time…

As the miraculously sentient creatures of earth with the gift of forethought and planning, sometimes, our little giddinness producing miracles go sideways. New plans must take the place of a road not taken. Make some adjustments to life, or in other words, change.

Change happens regardless of those Steinbeckian mice and men and their ne’er do well notorious plans. Change cannot be adjusted to adapt to our busy day, or to a more pleasing time. Even if you can accept and understand how the new changes will fit into your future narrative, we must reconfigure too many other important things that we are rushing around to get to even acceptance for life altering style shifts in our lives. Yet we’re stuck waiting for “never” it would seem, when you can accept and integrate it seamlessly, not when a moment of  “nothing much to do” happens.  Change, accept it or not, happens at the worst times of your life. How large the richter scale measures the shaking, like change in a life, the worse the earthquake shifts the ground under your feet. Changes become your entire self when the diagnosis of cancer creates tectonic shifts in identity, spirituality, sexuality…all our -ity’s.

Change comes in no particular size, no unit of time, no structural blueprints – nothing measurable to understand how far the shift will take you – a foot or thousands of miles. For instance, there’s little sureties that must change during chemotherapy, such as your toothpaste for periodontal sensitivity and dry mouth from medications and opiate pain therapies.  Then you face the omni-encompassing, life circumventing tectonic shifts. A soul wrapped in a physical body begins to change because of the corpus crisis cancer creates.

The identifications of a  person’s life, defined by what they DO to make a monetary living means less than before, even ending in a firey, screeching crash for some of us. Then what are we? Take our careers away and what does cancer leave as our identities in its wake?  Our souls feel alone since in order to interact as part of a network of people who identify with us, now are those who barely remember our names anymore. We worked on projects once, but cancer took those projects and made them impossible for us to remain on the “team.” Our souls become alone again.

Change to our identities from cancer, especially metastatic cancer, comes from a scarcity of funds and the unkmown quantity of life in human years. The equation for how much for how long when both =x and divided by zero doesn’t exist.

It’s more important to love what you do than making piles of money. The difference between living and making a living, is love. So make love, so to speak. Love what you do all day and love those with whom you choose to spend time with each day. The love you give to your living and to the people who help you make it deserve your best self. On the days when my best self looks something like the sock sorter in hell for the devil himself, I still wear the best possible face I can find inside myself, and get on sorting those damned socks.

By the way, I absolutely abhor sorting socks, and if by some bizarre quirk in the space time continuum hell exists, then hell is not other people as Jean Paul Sartre said, it’s sorting socks! Shut-y. We all have our quirks,so do not be so judge-y. Existentialism aside, stay clear of anything that feels wrong to you, feels ugly, feels hurtful, feels boring. Walk out of a bad movie, put down a dreadfully written book! Consume only content that pleases your aesthetic sensibilities. Once you’ve chosen your next intellectual feast for your mind and with your integrity in tact, pour yourself a steaming cup of Pleasure tea, grab a honkin’ slab o’ Happy Pie, and relax blissfully in the arms of a loving chair. Your flavor. Your way. You’ll love each sip and every bite, and in return have more love for your living and the people with whom you live.

Change your selections in your jukebox to music you can dance to, because no one knows exactly how long they have. I mean really, you could get hit by a bus or something!

David Bowie – Changes

Angelic Details

Lampfish unevolved, light the crevice,
(otherworldly!)
Blindly finding their ceviche
(weirdly!)
A dinner time resevation for one,
Below the heaving inky pressures
Seas lifting other treasures.
Above on uboats rocking, spit roasted on a gun,
On rising waves. Cresting, comes the new,
Seemingly unborn facing headlong, due east.
Darwinian measures for Blackbeards pleasures,
Never found a way to count the treats.

Good boys tell lies,
Dead girls stay sweet,
Against your spies,
We lost
At our cost.
Yet in evolution’s last stand,
We find a willful brooding miner,
That ugly bottom feeder,
Seedlings lesser by designer.
Deedless fish, which unrefined,
Never stated their plans.
As one’s unsightly underbite remarked,
“Such a lamplit fool I am.”

The Antonym for Pain

Quotes about love. Google it. Many astute current and historical figures have quotes basically translated to – a life without love is not a life at all. I think Shakespeare said it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Actually I’m uncertain it Shakespeare but I’m not going to Google it. The one thing I can live without in life, in sickness, is pain. Pain, so it is said, presents itself so that you can appreciate the good times, the happiness…so you can appreciate. Appreciation of not having pain? Appreciation of what exactly?

I definitely appreciate those times in my life where I didn’t feel any pain at all in the morning. Smiling and eager, a hopped out of bed when as a young girl; I couldn’t wait to see the gifts of constant surprises of that day lifting me up and urging me to bounce up in the morning. My mother didn’t always see my urgency that way, then again I do not recall the last time I could say my world was carefree. These days, on the cusp of 52 years old I can’t wait to go back to bed so that I can lay down my cancer thrashed bones, and rest. l rest, read, and write. Much better than doing nothing at all – just like pain and appreciation. It’s better than appreciating nothing at all. I learned a new word this morning: compathy. Coined by a statistician at the turn of the century to describe the feelings of caring or grief that occurs in a crowd of people about a sad event. Seems so apropos.

With metastatic cancer to the bones comes a pain that I cannot find a way to describe to bring you, dear reader, to feel compathy for my sadness and my loss.  The physical pain invests itself into a marriage with your consciousness as well.   There’s nothing like it that I’ve felt that’s so physically omnipotent. Imagine having hot tongs that black smiths pick up horse shoes from burning coals hacking away at your insides. After a while those areas were cancer left its mark behind or new areas where its moved to grow, the pain becomes even hotter. Fierce.  In the two years since I found out about my diagnosis, I’ve shrunk about a quarter of an inch. I’m a 6 foot tall woman so for me not being 6 feet takes away part of my identity. I was very tall as a child. I was 6 feet tall by the time it was in 10th grade at 15 years old. So from the time I was 15 until now I’ve been 6 feet tall. It’s like when you lose your hair from chemo you lose part of your identity. We’re not ourselves anymore. When a woman goes through the violence of a mastectomy and one or both of her breasts are gone something of her identity is gone. Something that identified you as female is gone.

But with bone mets no one can see what’s going on you don’t really notice that I’m a quarter of an inch shorter unless I tell you and even then it’s not very much. But think about shrinking a quarter of an inch at 51 years old. I now understand the women I see hunched over on the street hanging like bent trees on walkers. They come outside each day, if there’s no malignant weather, from the old age home next door to our townhouse. They frown in skin of painful evidence though they’re walking just a few blocks just to get some fresh air. Pushing scaffolding around their bodies thrashed over by one awful thing or another like arthritis or osteoporosis. They’re in pain most of the time I would imagine. But to be 52 and understand what the pain must feel like to be in your 80s physically seems rather untimely and unfair.

I remember my mother’s mother, my Grammy Sylvia, in her late 70s and 80s. She stood just 5 feet tall. She was very well endowed with large breasts, whereas I towered over her since I could remember. 6 feet tall and just a bit of a B cup, clearly different from my grandmother’s body type. She didn’t die from cancer. She died from sadness. In a condo in Florida she lost my poppa Bernie and lived on for 10 years after he died. But it was something she never got over. I felt compathy with her and visited with her nearly every week sometimes two or three times. For her, alone and grieving, even small aches and pains probably seemed 10 times worse than they really were.

I have my husband and the good news is he’s coming out of his depression. There are days it shows its ugly face and then it lifts, and I’m incredibly happy to see my husband again. Yet on those days the depression takes him away I learnt to really appreciate the times I have him all to myself. If you unfortunately understand the downside of this horrible disease then you know how I feel when he’s depressed. How I dread not having him around me. Not having anyone to make me laugh. Not having anyone to hold my hand to tell me a joke and to tell me “I love you.” He’s my family and the only real family I have left. If not for him I’m not sure where I would be, what I would do today or tomorrow, or where I would live, or how I would feel. It’s a vastly different life than I have now. I’ve concluded the following: I don’t think The opposite of pain is health, maybe the opposite of pain is appreciation.

You can appreciate things a whole lot more when it’s painfully difficult to get out of bed in the morning. And you can appreciate love a whole lot more when you don’t know how much longer you have to love that person. Because you know what you’re going to leave behind is in pretty. Isn’t happy. It’s not going to be good for anyone who is involved. What I hope is that I will to those who knew me an appreciation for life. And perhaps an appreciation for who I was. And perhaps even an appreciation for who they are. I hope one day my lovely man loves himself as much as I do and know that he is of the most gifted and wonderful souls the universe given to us… to me. And to the people who left my side and scattered like ants away from me when my diagnosis came down like Maxwell’s silver hammer: without Craig I would not have anyone to appreciate life with and then, like my grandmother, the pain would really become even more terribly sharp in a single instant.

I appreciate love.  Perhaps, for me,  pain’s opposite isn’t appreciation, pain’s antonym (and it’s antidote) is love.

Postoperate

img_0220live postoperatively. While daylight casts shadows back east, these hours used and reserved positions like reclining for flying and appointments and tests. Before stage 4, a lap formed by sitting posed an imposition on daily routines. Sex and sleeping happen in bed. Lights dimmed or off. Today my husband hugs at my good side. My left side. The port juts out of my right sub-clavicle chest wall above the offending breast. Raised in a locked, up right position, satin sheets of sweat envelop my body.   Feminine, defenestrated and forced out to pasture, I’m as uncomfortable in this green yard as I irecall my life.

Pain and Practice

You can achieve the magic eye,
Without much effort, pain, or practically
With silvery shadow spread upwardly.
Lids covered platinum, eyes for now, opposite.
Brushed, stroked far beyond river banks,
Gala and golden eyes for nighttime trades
Made in sunshine, fans, and shade.
Violets tip their hats towards the old mosque,
Egyptian eyes line up against a painting of the dusk
Green, winged, shark-skinned scarabs rescue
Yet not waiting, shut down until resistance stops you.

Sitting waiting under the shimmering Nile lights,
Desert pink at sundown, rooms ancient and airtight.
Late day blues, and hues of gray desert defy
Your thankless hands entwined.
Together in practice and now effortlessly,
You can achieve the magic eye.

Want vs. Need – to be human is to need

My hope: someone else reads this and realizes others besides themselves feel the heaviness of the life they’ve led and the weight of what the future holds and finds they’re not alone… Reads this with the comfort that if there is just one person who feels this way means others, too, share their pain. After reading this they go on through the day knowing other people who “get it.” Or perhaps the fact deepens the wellspring of hope out of your physical reach. But it’s okay for the “strong.” The ones who people depend on not those who depend on others, our shoulders broaden with time like the trunk of a tree. Ah, it’s all that, and not simple.

Sometimes fear rules over love. Living in fear brings a darkness. The kind of dark without any light at all. The darkness of the universe. Living with love in your soul brings light, and the light brings peace to your soul.

Light and love bring peace and knowledge. Knowledge of many kinds – of the self, of others, and a broader wisdom beyond temporal time – yesterday, the here and now, tomorrow. Light illuminates Spiritual knowledge. As overwhelming as it may seem, actually it’s quite peaceful. It’s knowledge of the fleeting nature of suffering. Knowledge of our short, blink of an eye length of time here we only experience a few moments to deeply interact with other human consciousnesses, with their own crosses to bear, their own fears, and shadows cast by their souls between light and darkness.  It’s therefore incumbent upon those who found peace in the light to bear a torch or at least light a candle for those who cannot find the way due to unwillingness or in this case death. Whether temporarily or because it’s been so long that they can remember what happiness is like, bringing them strength to pull themselves into the light so they can find love, is necessarily our task.

As an aside, last Friday night at sundown on the Jewish sabbath, I lit six candles – one for each of the good souls responsible for my existence and passing on the responsibility of bringing love into this world. The six candles were for my parents, both of whom I lost very recently, and my four grandparents. Leah Kaminsky nee Fox, my paternal grandmother, died in 1969 of metastatic breast cancer. She died before any of my miraculous and poisonous treatments became available for her. Who knows what my life would have been with her in this world. But one cannot speculate. The universe works always as it should.

I realized after lighting those six yertzheit candles at sundown last Friday, how my Jewish heritage celebrated life, not with food of which so many of us joke, but with light. (They fought us, we won, let’s eat.)

I learnt recently that the Jews view the flame of candles to represent the human body, mind, and spirit. Those are the three colors around the wick of a candle: the blue light closest to the wick that burns the hottest, represents the physical body that requires energy (or food – candles were made from bees wax in long past days); the white light next, representing the mind that’s fueled by the body; and the outer red flame represents the soul’s connection to the body and mind and also the light that creates brightness and connects to everything we know and the unknowable universe.

Remembering that life brings love and fear shrouds us in darkness, I looked through tears at my husband who suffers from depression. He refuses treatment. In my tears I tell him that my struggle with cancer becomes much more difficult when he cannot be with me if he refuses help. He believes it’s not authentic if he gets outside help, yet it’s now been two full years. By doing so I feel like he denies me the joy that would help to keep me alive in good health longer. It’s no secret that stress and unhealthy relationship cause illness.  By withholding treatment he’s withholding love from himself, and from me. I believe in some ways perhaps I am selfish, and that I should depend on myself for joy.

But as human beings we need others. He remarked, “I want you,” – that’s a perception of me as object. We want a car, we want a computer. We need other humans – and that is the definition of love to me. Giving of yourself of love – not only the romantic kind of love, but the love we give of ourselves even when things seem the darkest. I told him I need you – in response.

Another aside (please excuse my ADHD). About six years ago, I had $10 in my pocket, and was living through a very ugly chapter in my life that effected me to the degree of experiencing PSTD. My stepson, then nine years old, tagged along as he always did when he stayed the weekends. There sat a man outside of Whole Foods. He was suffering from bone cancer and could not afford his treatments. He wasn’t lying. You could see his eyes and his body and his shame for needing help from strangers. I gave him the last of the money I had to my name that day. My stepson asked why I gave him that money, and my answer was simply, there is always someone who has life way worse than me.

There but for the grace of god go I.

Live in love and light although today may seem so full of pain. Live knowing that you can be the light for another today when things seem so dark and hopeless to them right now. And know you’re not alone, you are amongst a world of people who will bring light today along with you. My birthday is June 21st – the longest day of the year. Was the universe giving me a big responsibility that day? I must assume if I believe in the human spirit that indeed my task is such. But it’s heavy, my shoulders hurt, and my knees are swollen from the weight. But here I stand, while others cannot even get out of bed today.

No chance at all I’d leave my love in his time of darkness. I’ll help light the hidden path until he takes it.

Fuck cancer. I’m stronger than anything that can be handed this physical self. My tenacity and my humor carry me from test to test. Some I pass, others I fail; yet my life’s biggest test is as long as I can stand here and reach out to others and say, “I need you.”