I am sick of cancer. I am so damned sick of cancer I want to kick it in the face and punch it in the throat and toss it to the ground and stomp it to death once and for all. I hate it. I hate that it keeps sticking its hateful pointless sharp nose into the lives of people I love. It’s a brute of a sickness, an evil and unwelcome liar. It is a killer tarted up and whorish. There’s hope and optimism… bam. There’s confidence and faith and staying strong… smash. And there’s fear and anxiety and hopelessness and grief… yes, there are all of those things.
I don’t have cancer (though who the hell knows, everybody will sooner or later right?). People I have loved have battled cancer… and yes,in my mind it’s always a foe, an enemy. Some have beaten it, for now at least. Some haven’t. Some people I care about have just had it come back and kick them in the ass again. Some for a second time, a third time…
Why? How? What is in our world, this world, this water, this food, this air… these walls, this furniture, this carpet, this computer screen or phone that is KILLING US? What are we ingesting, digesting, resting on that is invading our bodies and turning our own cells against us?
I want this to stop. I don’t want it to catch anyone else that I love. I don’t. I’m tired of crying.
And so the inward looking begins…or continues… in search of meaningful & achievable resolutions. Pointless to say I will exercise more and eat less, folly to suggest I can change much about how I process my external world. I’d be lying to myself if I vowed to drink less red wine and avoid chocolate and cussing.
I need smaller resolutions, tiny resolutions that will be little stones in a giant pond. I need to find tiny ways to alter how I give myself to the world, to my family, to those I love. I need little itty bitty meditative alterations that will smooth the painful bristles of my coat, that will make me more huggable and less of a systemic shock to those whose well being matters most.
I want to be gentle. I want to be kinder. I want to be more loving, more giving, more forgiving, more forgivable. I want to be soft. I want to be feather soft. I wish to be a balm, a soothing salve rather than a burn, a wound, an abrasion.
I don’t know where these new ways of being live. I don’t know where to find them. I want to.
I want to.
It’s a new year. This year there is no hollering, no kicking of cans. This year there is only quiet retreat, a catch in the throat, a throb behind my left eye. I wish things I can’t give, I’ve given things I can’t reclaim.
It’s almost a new year. It’s almost a new…
No, it’s the same me on a new calendar page unless I can find a new path.
And the stone is about to fall, and the pond is about to ripple.
So happy new year.
What can I possibly write? I have words smashing around in my mind, in my chest, words that will hit the page like hammer blows, like tears falling. I have words trapped and seeking, and I can’t provide their freedom.
I have no place to put these thoughts – these words – this volcano – that will not harm. There is no place to set this burden down. I will cause pain, no matter where I try to take ease.
If you see me, realize you are seeing what you expect to see… in the way the proofreader skips over spelling errors and jarring mistakes, seeing only what the brain predicts.
That sound you hear when we pass is effort…those words want out.
The community I live in and love has been struck hard by tragedy in the last month. Two young families have lost their Dads…quickly, shockingly, unfairly. The two families have 5 children between them, all 11 and younger.
The two men, both dedicated outdoors men were friends. They worked together, shared similar passions and lived their lives with enormous intensity and capacity for joy. They died 3 weeks apart, separately, in two completely unrelated tragedies.
Last night on my flight home from a visit to the big city I brushed up close to that pain. I sat with the sister in law of the most recently lost husband, father, friend, Daddy. Her heart was in pieces, visibly. She was lovely. She was so sad, so worried for her sister, her little niece and the shell shocked boys. Their father died trying to save them from a river; them and the son of the woman sitting next to me for 3 hours. I felt…still feel, gutted. I am grateful that I was there, able to help her with her own young daughter, be a new face, a new ear, a new mirror to look in to see who she is now. As she told me the story, my heart broke again and again. At one point, she said, there were six people in the river, all drowning. Half were there to save, half were being saved. All were at risk of being lost. Too few safety measures afforded by the resort they were visiting, so many people, so much crying and fear and screaming, so little anyone could do. And so, one Daddy died. One husband is gone. So many lives are forever changed.
I wasn’t there. I don’t know the family personally, though I feel so connected to them. I felt that connection even before meeting this woman who has so much to try and block from her memory, so much to move forward from. I felt that connection because I am a wife, I am a mother. I feel that connection so much more now, having had the little girl with the saddest face I’ve ever seen sit on me, play with my phone and take sad photos of herself. This little girl has just lost her Daddy; she is 3.
The two families, linked by friendship and interest and passion and love of the outdoors are now linked by sorrow, loss and tragedy. I am now, forever, linked to their story. I will never erase from my heart the sight of this woman, this heartbroken sister, the aunt of these children in shock. She almost lost her own son and father to the river, lost instead her brother in law, her sister’s joy and her own sense of security in the world.
She said it was so awful. So horrible. So unbelievable. She has touched my life forever.
Yukon, we have two families who need us terribly right now. 5 children who will need all the support we can provide. Two mothers whose worlds have just been turned upside down, and who haven’t even begun to measure what lies ahead. I want to do something. I wish I could do something.
I spent last weekend with her in the beautiful home they built together on top of a hill overlooking a river. A home they dreamed of, worked toward and loved. It was the realization of a lifetime of hard work and planning… truly their dream home. They shared it for three years, and it made them so happy. There is so much joy everywhere in that house.. in every tile, fixture, deck chair. I’m happy I visited a year ago, with him proudly showing off every bell and every whistle.
When people have been a part of your life for, well, your whole life, it’s hard to measure their importance. This woman is not my mother, this man was not my father. They occupy a different, separate space in my heart that’s hard to define. I have so much love for them that I don’t think I’ve ever really thought about or been fully aware of. His death has hit me hard; not the same as the loss of my own Dad, but still a powerful hurt.
Sitting with her last week, holding her while she cried, listening to her try and make sense of this bleak new universe, I realized I had nothing wise to say. I have no words to make it better. I can’t fix anything. When she turned to me with a panicked and confused look on her face and asked “when will I remember? I keep thinking I can’t wait to tell him about our visit”, I felt helpless. I want so badly to mend something for her, to answer even one of her millions of unanswerable questions.
So I will do what I can… tiny, inconsequential and impotent as I feel. I will send her random texts reminding her that I love her, I will phone her, send her beautiful pictures and powerful stories. I will send her music… all her music is so deeply entwined with his memory that it hurts her to listen right now.
I know I will do so much less than I want to for her. What I truly want to do just can’t be done.