One Word Can Make All the Difference

So, there’s wonderfully good things that transpire to create a solid high of energy around us that heal. Then I think neutral stuff happens all day long like stopping at a red light. It can be a negative event if the conditions we perceive make it so: e.g. I’m late so this might make me later still; I have bad luck. Outside of all perception and control things happen all around us: environmentally, socially, scientifically, etc. We assume we have some way to partake in those events or that they conspire against us to create a negative vortex or a positive window or door to look out or step through. It’s vague. But the vagueness is very interesting isn’t it?

Perhaps you feel like cancer or disease is in some way your fault or a conspiracy of circumstances. I actually believe it’s both. In my heart I now know there preceded my cancer diagnosis events that were incredibly stressful creating a hospitality center for my cancer to take up residence in my body. It’s not my “fault.” There’s no way we can know just what dis-ease lie in wait for us except for the occasional discordances like diabetes, which is generally genetic. However that’s controllable with diet.

We live in a diseased environment that much like our bodies under stress develops dangerous conditions in which nature slowly dies. In some sense I’m glad I won’t be around to see the death of our planet as we know it. Depressing. But truth be told did we need the fluoride in our water? Did we need all that corn? Do chickens need such big breasts that they fall over? Does organic even mean without chemicals? No. None of this is true. But we are fed a body of fear to add to our newly stressed out lives and we wonder why breast cancer rates since the 1950s have increased from 1:40 to 1:8 (or 7 depending on who you ask). That’s a gigantic rate of increase in a very short period of time. And not to get too much into numbers but only 5% of cancers are genetic. Including breast cancer.

So what can we do about all this? Well I am headed back to Commonweal in Bolinas, California in two weeks to attend my second session at the Cancer Help Program. (CHP information)I’m giddy with excitement and literally cried tears of joy upon receiving the call last week. And we are in the midst of closing on our house and finally finding a new one. But it doesn’t have to be stressful. I sit in acceptance of offers of help from a professional organization expert hired for me by my realtor, with C’s assistance and the enlisting of a moving and storage company if it comes down to it. I’m not giving up the opportunity to move to a new home with my life partner and best friend to drag the same shit along buried deep in a dark box from my internal attic. No point. It wasn’t working for me before so it won’t work going forward.

The first week long program started the healing in October of 2016. But I knew I wasn’t well and wound up spending a week in the hospital upon my return. C was at the apex of his depression and there was no relief in sight. He was hospitalized about two months later as well, for his anxiety had gotten so bad that I couldn’t in good conscience watch him deny his condition any longer. A long road to healing began for us both individually and as a couple.

But something seemed really undone. Like a frayed rope or like confetti or ticker tape after a parade my mental streets need sweeping. I called one of the founders of the CHP in March hoping to get to the June week program before the summer break. Only eight people can attend. September had the right mix for me with the other seven attendees. June just didn’t play out.

I am blessed again to benefit from people I love and respect and who gave me a path to find my way to new meaning. The most profound statement of healing cane from one of my private sessions with Michael Learner, the founder of Commonweal. He said, “Ilene, why don’t you call yourself a writer? That’s what you are.” And a simple statement changed the course to bring us here. Today.

I am a writer headed back to the Cancer Help Program in two weeks. In the meantime I hope to post one more time to respond to Nancy’s Point and her Blog Hop. I feel like a bad friend but I know she understands.

I’d check out her blog if you’ve not been there yet. I love Nancy’s way of explaining the emotions and medical conditions about having cancer and losing her mom to cancer as well. Take the time to read her stuff it’s worth it. She’s also written several helpful books especially for those new to this cancer culture that you’ll welcome even if it’s old hat.

And with that I leave you with my love and my light and a gentle goodnight and a poem from Robert Frost:
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference

How to Move with Metastatic Cancer (hint: HELP!)

How do you handle huge life events with metastatic cancer? As best as you can and with slow determination. Asking for assistance from your friends and from your family sometimes doesn’t pan out. I have a wonderful friend I made years ago at a garage sale. She was a couple of dollars short and I’d covered her so she could enjoy a few vintage ceramics and beads.

Now, six years later Des is my friend and Des is my housekeeper. Through the course of time we’d found commonality in our eclectic eye for beads and for jewelry making. We drudged through the stress of packing, readying this memory box of 1600 square feet to move its contents elsewhere. We actually live in a pretty nice townhouse. If you’d like to check out my amateur “staging” here’s the link to the sales materials including a 3-D rendering and a video. http://www.1481carrington.com/

Removing the traces of 11 years of memories as eclectic and varied as the beads I collect brings about a sort of melancholy to my heart. Des came over to help me pack as we sell our townhouse. She also refuses to take a dime because what once were services have shifted into the kindness of a friendship. She commented that I’d give the shirt off my back, which I literally have done several times in my life. She said she couldn’t possibly take money from me when clearly I was the one who needed help right now.

My husband made sure she got paid for it, since she cannot afford the time and I cannot afford the intense guilt. I’ve never needed so much physical assistance before. I guess I’ll chalk it up to age and leave the cancer for another time. But I can’t, because it’s for the cancer we are moving and due to the cancer that I need help.

All the kindness I have shown her was reflected back at me in ways I never imagined. When we give it should never hold the expectation that we may receive something in return. But as my philosophy about karma is not to do bad in the world as it keeps you looking over your shoulder at whose anger is behind you. Then you cannot see the good that’s right in front of you and you either miss these opportunities or trip over them and fall on your face.

A change of residence is very high on the stress scale https://www.stress.org/wp-content/uploads/2019/04/stress-inventory-1.pd

My stress adds up to just under having a 50% chance over the next two years of having a catastrophic health event. I think I’m already there so I’ve beaten the stress scale by four and a half years. But looking back I had a very low level of stress in my life in the years leading up to my diagnosis, so go figure. Perhaps the subconscious predicts stressors before they arrive to eat us alive. I was planning a change of career and the very day – March 15, 2015 – was the same day I was diagnosed in the hospital and the day I was supposed to start a new job.

You Oughta Be in Pictures!

The house really shows well – I’ll have it even more staged for our open house on Sunday. There is so much work to do after living a full life for 11 years in a home. And our home has been really good to us. I’m grateful to it for giving us positive memories, but it’s time to close this chapter in our lives and move onto the next chapter .

I know intrinsically that this house will be wonderful to whomever buys her next. It’s stable and so well cared for and we feel bittersweet selling her but we leave it with good love and positive energy. After searching for our new digs, I believe you can tell if people who lived in a house were happy and if it looks like a product of divorce or ugliness. Not so here!

The Zombie Apocalypse

In the state of California, if someone died in a house in the three years prior to selling it you must disclose that event to the buyers? I found it morbid and kind of strange. our culture’s obsession with first person shooter games, zombies, and horror films directly opposes the feelings of disgust when faced with real death or the dying. I’d think people would be desensitized to death rather than creeped out by it.

It’s a huge decision to invest into a house. Love, time, energy, money and holiday spirit, all paint it the colors of the personalities who reside inside. Our next home will likely be my last move, my last address, the last place my name will be printed on mail and arrive in my mailbox. Maybe the quote about dying twice – once when your physical body dies and the last time someone says your name aloud – should be corrected to dying three times if we include the last time your name is printed on junk mail. I bet junk mail lists last a lot longer than even the youngest people who might speak of me later given the tenacity of mass marketers.

Oh, and I’ll submit this: if the last time you posthumously receive a piece of junk mail addressed to you is the last whisper of your name what does that say about our culture when we cannot even control having our online avatars removed from Facebook and Twitter. If that’s all true, then we’re all going to live forever. A planet of the walking dead carrying sacks of marketing materials for the Red Cross and coupons for barbecue. The zombie apocalypse is upon us.

“You look great.”

Walking up to my weatherproof face
Say, “you look great,”
(With the implied italics on the great.)
My invalidly clear skin,
Such wise wild eyes,
Naturally open up wide,
Wow, you look great!“

Could you spare a surprise?
Shuddering at the danger of such a storm
Surging through my veins like an impulse
Holding back the invisible force
As you to recoiled.

Do you recall the dress I wore that pink afternoon?

How I make lemonade from such a sour fruit?
I don’t think
About my v-neck or recall how I flowed by you
Last time we met.
Unlucky chance as
Circumstances,
Uncomfortable yet innocuous. Maybe
A mall or a supermarket?
In an aisle with its Chia seeds, with its quinoa,
With its turmeric or with its masala, or with its free green tea?
Did you try some new found red fruit
Ubiquitous and misspelled as often as the word misspell.
Say it again:

You look so shocked that we must do lunch.
Face red over the menu
Its dishes unpronounceable.
Those one named joints like Spoon or Fork.
Those restaurants where everything on the list you exclaim and pronounce, expertly.

If it came down to the question of my looks,
Would you reply
Without gratitude:
Why thank you
How graciously
Oh, you’re too kind.
Leave for home alone
And cry.

Or ask me
“why do you ask me?”

As though you were the sick one.
Overrun with a malady,
Melodiously, waltzing to
A “thank you” with a sing song voice,
High and staccato
But sad sad
Ever sad.
Rememorys of quotes,
Remember me?
Reaffirming how strong, how beautiful, how positive?
Stop – the compliments overflow in my former cups.
How good do I really Iook?
Is it true or
The way shock looks good on you?
How good does it look not to be sick?
Not to lose?
I want to win the rights
to own my identity.
The right to keep my hair.
“You kept your hair!
How wonderful.“
I look fabulous.
Would you recoil if I retorted
Or chortled,
Out of some joke at the expense of your boundaries?
Your fence affronted
Laughing nervously
At my acerbic wit.
To whit without bullshit.
You commend me for my strength.

And then worse than all the worlds’ compliments:
“I’ll pray for you.”
As god walks away to hit the drugstore
Along the weathered path home
No kneeling at the counter of
Optimal opioids and malcontents.

So, gaze inside every
mirror
Each shop window along your route.
Let the looking glass take you to the other side.
Take a snapshot of yourself inside
After the infusion.
It’s not permitted by punishment
By law.
By transdermal
By transplant
By subcutaneous injections
By contrast
To you
I do look great.

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