Gravitas...

The only flaw in my current reality is that it sucks. Even with my garland of pain patches and round-the-clock sprinkles of happy pills my body hurts and aches constantly. Especially at night. The demons of insomnia, agony and malaise haunt me through the dark hours. My opiates keep me stuporous during the day yet fail to blunt my anxiety.
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In short, I am depressed. And poor Paul is beside himself now that I am actually manifesting my illness in a real way. He is a wonderful man but, like many a fellow I know, is not the best equipped to stoically face what probably will be a tragic scene played out in technicolor before his eyes. Even before all of this he and I did not have a firm grip on the medications either of us is supposed to take and the other complexities whirling up about us like dust devils. Now all is lost in the miasma.

Herds of friends and relatives have suggested I sign up for hospice services. The scenes around here remind me of a scene from Beatrix Potter. I am Pigling Bland reborn surrounded by Alexander's. "Pigling Bland listened gravely; Alexander was hopelessly volatile." *

The thought of hospice so shocked me that I could not fully comprehend what was being suggested. My idea is that I would, forthwith, be thrown into an ambulance and confined to a cozy, light-filled room chock-a-block with soft stuffed animals and plastic flowers never to be seen again. I have now learned that the good folks doing hospice attempt to keep you at home.

Jeff has made the case a number of times that I go to San Francisco and have a doctor...him...on 24 hr call. He points out that SF has hospice services second-to-none and that he has ice water flowing through his veins; the latter just what you need when you, yourself, are having a magnificently bad set of hair days. Jeff remains calm and "just right" no matter what tempest is blowing. His logic is unassailable but I know Paul will have none of it and I am too tired to face the disruption, I suspect.

You may gather that I have been blasted from my perch amongst the Immortals. I have shattered into a shimmer of fireflies briefly flaring to create an insubstantial cloud in the form of MizFlounce. In pain. Still beautiful. But blazing less brilliantly, more fitfully.

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Enough glamour metaphors. Trust me, bottom line, it sucks sucks sucks!
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Dana Jennings, a fellow who has a very aggressive prostate cancer, writes about his experience of cancer. He wrote recently words I very much agree with.

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....."None of us would choose to have cancer. But getting this unexpected mortality check has deepened my appreciation of and connection to this life. Each moment holds out the promise of revelation.

.....Cancer urges us toward the essential in our lives, toward love and kindness and paying attention to the smallest, smallest detail. We suddenly understand that ice chips spooned into a parched mouth, that being able to simply urinate, are gifts, the kinds of ordinary gifts that make up our lives.

.....So, yes, Easter and Passover beckon with their vernal tales of exile, renewal and redemption. I found out exactly one year ago today that I had prostate cancer. But I won’t know for a time whether I’ve been passed over.

.....Whatever happens, though, I’m ready."

Back to the trenches...

Judy (via jeff)

* The Tale of Pigling Bland, p. 25 by Beatrix Potter

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Pigling Bland and Alexander do lunch

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