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: stage 4 breast cancer
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.
Unlatch me, catch and return me scales, underbitten and in the flesh A real guest of honor. Crumpled shirts creased, A Western hanging for Black hats. Barn door closets Open and craving smart suits. Drawers devoid of life, Almost empty except Gideon’s guide book — The Special Edition With tourist maps all Pointing north at
Should FEDEX and UPS have required a signiture as instructed by my agent the special victims unit of CVS Carremark located in India? My chemo came in cardboard boxes including VOLUMOUS amounts of Phizer literature. I used their web site irrespectively, even if the loads of junk mail in both boxes were important they went unread, causing more environmental ugliness that helped my breast cancer to spread in the first place.
#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?
Born with a scream, die with a whimper. Between those bookends, the self somehow develops. Perhaps it’s because we exist at the bottom of an empty well, waiting for the drenching rains of knowledge to float us up and out of the darkness. The more I know, the less I know, yet the more I’m
Depression and cancer. The locks to my prison, to which keys do not exist; there’s no cure, and there’s no future with happiness together as a team, the team I really counted on – but as Einstein said not all things that can be counted, should.
We all fall down. The ground grows smaller, As I pass the Earth, Becoming her daughter. Funny to stand today, Eclipsing the sun. My books marked still, On page one.
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