gray spaces

Whenever I find my mind going to “chronic disease” or putting some arbitrary time limit on my life, almost automatically, without real intention—what could almost be called a default—either I whisper or am whispered to, “Except for the miracle.” I’m a hold out for a miracle. Whether this is faith or foolish hope will invariably be proven in time. Whether this is faith in miracle by way of a wicked cocktail of cytotoxic drugs, a willfulness to keep laughing, the drive to continue the tedious, holy work of bringing presence to the mundane of the everyday, or something else out of my hands altogether, I don’t know. What I do know is this: cancer hasn’t made facing the everyday challenges I always have struggled with easier: the challenge to engage my children remains, the hard work of corralling my rogue thoughts out of the ruts of neurosis persists, the pursuit of being present and intentionally living in the daily, the tedium, continues. It hasn’t made it easier, but it has made it more...

I'm sitting here at chemo, the anti-nausea drugs dripping before I start the Taxotere and Carboplatin. I'll also get Herceptin today, but not the Zometa. Michelle, the adorable chemo nurse giving me my meds today said that my blood counts are great--no lows. This is fantastic, given the fact that usually chemo kills off a lot of white blood cells (I think). So that's great news. I have no deep thoughts today. My well of wisdom has run dry, the deep, profound thoughts run amok. Heretofore thou shalt all be bored senseless by my inane ponderings of insignificant drivel. We brought the girls in this morning to get a tour and meet everyone. They were great and of course charmed the socks off everyone. I put Eliza in pig tails to make sure that her cuteness properly motivates all relevant personnel to kick ass on my behalf. Clark then took them outside where my mom took over--she had brought an elaborate picnic and outdoor activities--they had a great time and even managed to gi...

So this morning I placed a call to one of my oldest friends (she's not old--the friendship is), Dana, who I've mentioned here before. Her daughter, Emersyn, is the spunky little four-year-old who has Loeys-Dietz syndrome and just bounced back from open heart surgery at the beginning of May. Back when my dad died, in 1993, Dana was probably the best grief counselor I had. She didn't say much. I don't recall us talking a whole lot. Her dad and my dad had been really good friends in their early teaching days, and our moms are still close. Dana and I have known each other since we were three years old or something crazy like that, and we've never really lost touch. She's been through more than I think almost anyone could handle, and she remains a woman of grace, wisdom, and great mercy. I can't believe she calls a boob like me friend, but I'm damned lucky. I called her this morning and we talked and cried about dealing with the reality of death on too regula...

Today, aside from some chest tightening and some muscle aches, I feel pretty good. Of course, the massage didn't hurt.....so nice. I've been trying to walk and exercise more. Some of you know that I had been an avid, very faithful exerciser for years, and then, seemingly from last fall on, had been really struggling to maintain consistency. Mostly I beat up on myself, tuning in to a steady stream of KFKD radio, eating shame for breakfast, lunch and dinner because that is what I do, but now I'm wondering if the cancer was sapping me of my energy. At least, that's the story I'm sticking to. So this morning, while my kindly neighbor Lorene looked out for the kiddies, I walked the giant horsey-dog down to the river. I've been told I'm difficult to keep up with while walking, to which I merely reply, "That's not the only thing you can't keep up with" and keep walking. I feel much better, symptomatically speaking, when my heart is pumping. Psycho...

I woke up this morning to a back full of knots, cranky as hell, and ready to rip off anyone's head who came too close. And.....he did. Poor man. Bill, I think he may need to go out for that beer with you. I didn't sleep well at all, Eliza being fussy and needing too much reassurance to give me more than a few consecutive hours of already-restless, angst-laden, tossing-turning half sleep. The coffee didn't even satisfy, the taste falling flat in my mouth. Normally, I need coffee like an addict needs heroine, but the only thing I could taste this morning was bitterness at meaningless platitudes flung out of other's selfish needs for their own validation and disregard for what might actually help me. In the midst of a fair amount of reasonable terror, by anyone's standards, trite phrases that attempt to put a mere band-aid on my gushing wound do little more than exacerbate the fear. To be fair, there have been precious few flung out, and particularly not from anyone wh...