girl at large

Clear Air

I snapped today. One of my cancer care team said “warrior” one too many times and I finally let them have it. As much as my squeaky, raw radiation laryngitis voice will let me anyway.

I hate warrior/hero/battle culture. I am not any different than any other cancer patient. It’s all suffering. We all suffer. When someone just as “strong” as me dies, what does that say for the strength of their fight? The depth of their will? Nothing. Because it’s not a fair fight. Warriors choose to go to battle, heros are heroic because they choose to go in to danger when others shirk. No one chooses cancer.

Give me the space to be weak. Just because I’m not crying in your office doesn’t mean I don’t cry in my car. Telling me Im strong because I’m “doing it all” while I’m in treatment? Ugh, it’s not strength, it’s reality. I still work because I have bills to pay. I still take care of my kids because they live in my damn house (LOL).

Cancer don’t care. My doctor should.

The Growth That Doesn’t Kill You

Now that we can be social again, I get a lot of questions about my cancer. Some are kind, some are strange, most are simple enough—the basic how are you doing/feeling/coping. Once in awhile a query is profound. A very dear friend, with a talent for getting to the heart of the matter, especially when it’s your heart itself, asked “Has this experience changed how you relate with your father?”

pow. In fact, it did. 

My drive to treatment is about twenty minutes each way, thirty when I take the prettiest lake route. I enjoy it, and with the spare time I make speaker phone calls.

Me: “Hey, Siri, call Dad”

Siri: ”Sorry, you don’t have a Dad”

Bwaaaaahaaa.... so, this experience has changed Robert to Dad in my phone and in my life.

 

p.s. did I mention the friend is also my hair dresser? Skip the therapist, get your hair done.

 

Happy Happy Happy

You turn five tomorrow. Your arms and legs are thin and strong, your eyes are so round and large that in my dreams you often appear as an owl. A loud, slightly bossy owl.

As every second born knows, you will be burdened with the story of being the baby, being the squawker, the pesky little brother. My hope for you is that you get to break free from that some day and write your own story.

And it will be hilarious. The amount of energy you can summon to greet “morningtime!” is amazing, the house rings with your cheerful chatter. When you are excited, you get so animated that you literally pat your own legs with a little drum roll, as if your body cannot contain the feeling and it must be released. Charlie, you are the happiest being I have ever known. 

And, as my mother says to me each year, I’m so glad I had you.

 

Burned

Which one of these is HOT honey? Trick question, they BOTH are!

Eat a spoonful of honey the nurse said. I’m going to recommend eating straight honey the radiation oncologist said. Oh yes, you’ll have to do the honey trick the nurse navigator said. Even my own mother advised honey to sooth my sore and swollen throat, caused by radiation. Alright I’ll go for it I said…

…to all the graphic designers everywhere, please for the love of god test your product labels in dim light, with a Gen Xer without their readers on.

Holding On To The Feeling

 

We have the Adirondack chairs, we have the greenery...can we hang on to the peaceful feeling? Our trip to Kentucky’s Shaker Village was four satisfying days of gorgeous scenery, fresh air, birdsong and heavenly biscuits.

How can just one day back to treatment (daily radiation) and work frazzle me so quickly?! Deep breaths I remind myself, wistfully looking at my six hundred photos of rolling green hills, gravel pathways and spring light. Tonight I resolved to capture some of that feeling at home...

”Let’s eat healthier like we did on the trip” I say.

“Sure, you make us honey peanut butter and fan the apples out fancy just like the restaurant!” the kids say...

 

ps. Also, Charlie is back to being mostly naked.