Another Sixteen Years, Or More

Well. Long time, no blog. As slow as I’ve been at writing this summer, you’d think I was literally using a broken quill and the Pony Express for delivery, but have mercy. It’s been an insanely busy summer, and I’ve lived through it with barely enough energy to scrape by each day.

I’ve wanted to write a follow up to my post that I wrote about my cancer scare, but after the news came back that my breast lump was negative for cancer, I came down with an immediate case of writer’s block. I could’ve said so many words, and yet I felt for a long while afterward that it wasn’t time to speak. It was just time to live. Enjoy the weather. My family. My friends. And a few new books. So that’s what I’ve tried to do.

Jessie and Karl have been living with us, and until they move into their new house, I’ve resolved to simply give up a bit of my own life for theirs, and also enjoy the fact that I don’t have to make heart wrenching decisions regarding chemo, radiation, and possible funeral arrangements. In short, I’ve spent my summer intent on de-stressing however I could, while keeping as active as possible, in mind and body. Living on two acres with a toddler grandson (aka Tornado Todd) has helped me do so. But summer is ending. Todd, Karl, and Jessie will be in their new home in a few weeks, and I need to get back to the blogging board. I’ve missed it, and yet I needed to be done with it for a spell.

As for those post-cancer scare feelings …

My initial reaction to the good news that I was cancer free was of course elation, relief, and peace. I floated on a ginormous fluffy cloud for quite a few days – and then depression hit. And then guilt for feeling depressed hit. What kind of ungrateful heathen goes into depression after hearing they are cancer free? It didn’t make an ounce of sense to me, but I suspected it had to do with the fact that, though I was not filled with cancer, I remained afflicted with celiac, gastroparesis, heart problems, thyroid problems, chronic fatigue, headaches, and a host of neurological symptoms that nobody can explain. So although I was saved from walking down the rough road of trying to eradicate cancer, I would also have to continue walking down the dead end road I’ve been on for sixteen years.

Sixteen. 

Could I do another sixteen?

Did I want to do another sixteen?

The answer to that last question was often no. I didn’t want to. I was so mentally and physically done with chronic illness, I wasn’t capable of mustering up any desire to keep pushing through fatigue, brain fog and inability to concentrate, eating the same two foods day in and day out, walking and busying myself in spite of two out of four limbs shaking and hurting.

But I wanted to want to want to. So even though I’ve been in a bit of a funk, my prayers have tended toward asking the Lord to restore a vigor for life, and bring healing to my broken, often misunderstood, highly undesirable … uhm, body of death, I guess you could call it.

You know, when you say the word “cancer”, it’s like you turn on a switch in the brains and emotional make up of every friend and acquaintance you’ve ever had. Everyone gets it. Sympathizes. Sends cards. Steps in to pray their hearts out. But when you have some wickedly relentless, funkadilly digestive disease that doctors don’t even know how to explain, let alone treat, that also requires you to stop eating most everything by mouth and partake of “food” via your veins? Eh. You mostly get blank stares.

I was seriously impressed with how people stepped up when I was having my breast surgery. Cancer!! What an awful word. What a possible fiasco! What guaranteed suffering! What a fearful prospect!

All true. But no. What has been perhaps even more fearful to me is the thought of another sixteen years. Or more. Perhaps many more. Do I appreciate the cards I received in the mail before my breast surgery? Yes! The prayers? Oh my goodness, a thousand times, yes! The rush of comfort that so many offered? Absolutely. But why? Why that reaction to cancer and barely measurable responses to another sixteen years, or more?

My body is a prison, people. Nobody wants to serve another sixteen in prison. Or more.

I know it’s up to the prisoner to look out at the free world correctly. The free do not owe the locked up anything. So in a very real sense, I don’t expect anything but that blank stare. But, it’s just hard. Since hearing I’ll likely be on earth a while longer, it’s been exceedingly difficult to conjure up enough ooomph to carry on. Physically, emotionally, spiritually. In spite of my elation about being free of cancer, I remain imprisoned: worn, tattered, and daunted by the thought of another sixteen years.

Or more.

Hence my silence. A writer likes to write to inspire, and I am fully aware that what I’ve written today hasn’t been the least bit inspiring. In fact, maybe I’ve just upset your delicate internal balance, and now you’re going to have to eat a dozen Oreos on the couch whilst watching Oprah. Who knows! But a writer also tells the truth, and the truth is, I’m glad I’m cancer free – and sad I’m not healthy. If that makes a few readers binge on edible and emotional garbage, oh well.

At least you can binge. I have to wait until my body of death actually experiences death. And when that day comes? Oh, it’s Oreos. Soft pretzels dipped in hot cheese sauce. Pizza. Ice cream. Yeasty rolls dripping with butter and homemade strawberry jam. Peanut Buster Parfaits (plural). Cream of wheat with plenty of milk and sugar. Cinnamon and sugar toast to dip in the cream of wheat. Wheat. Wheat. Wheat. All of it, wheat. Pepsi on the rocks to wash it all down. Followed by a cup of hot, peach flavored tea served with butter cookies – made from wheat.

I’m nearly positive my “mansion” will be a small farmhouse in the country, with a white wrap around porch – in the middle of a wheat field. Just acre after acre of amber waves of grain, greeting me, welcoming me home … and constantly reminding me that death has been overcome.