Imbolc and the Valentine Moon
Saturday gratefuls: My son. Luke. Sadness. Emet. That guy directing traffic for the old man. Me. Eggplant Parmesan. Leo. A very sweet dog. Those contractors working on Luke’s street. Kind. Driving in Lakewood. A long Latino dominated part of east Lakewood and west Denver. Carnicerias. Mexican restaurants. Signs in Spanish. Lots of pickups. Mental health. New directions. Open heart.
Signs of Joy and Awe: Emet
The days of sadness. Hunting for emet, the truth, the meta-truth. About cancer. Turns out it’s about surfacing my needs, long blunted as I said on Thursday. In one sense I’ve skated through the last eight years. Why? Well, thought the cancer was gone for two of them. It wasn’t. But by the time I began radiation therapy for the first recurrence Kate had begun to decline. The radiation failed, but I would only learn that nine months later after the last of the Lupron left my body. By that time Kate’s needs dominated our lives.
After her death, two weeks. The second recurrence. Deep in grief. Having to begin drugs. Orgoyx and Erleada. Androgen deprivation therapy. Side effects. Hot flashes. But good results. Numbly following Kristie’s lead. Which was good. Piling on, but I barely noticed. Death. Cancer recurrence. What else? Hit me with your best shot.
And of course, during a lot of these last years, Covid. Then, Jon’s death, Ruth’s troubles. It’s been a rough patch.
The truth about this cancer is its longevity. That is, the treatment regimens, even those that come after the gold standards fail, are excellent as far other cancers go. I’ve been kept alive to experience these twists and turns in my family’s life. All the while with cancer as an underlayment. Won’t go away, won’t get cured, won’t kill me. Yet. Can’t ignore it with every three month labs and visits to the oncologist.
Sad about it. Yes. And about Kate’s illness and death. About Jon’s divorce, struggles, and death. About Ruth’s mental health. About the death of Rigel. Maybe it’s deep sadness about all these things. Not only the cancer.
The cancer is mine. The rest. Loved ones dying, grandchildren in pain. Close in. As close as the spot on the bed next to me. Guess sadness makes sense.
Yesterday I called my son. Told him I was sad. Needed to talk to him about it. He reassured me. You’re a survivor. You’re stubborn. If it comes to it, we’ll take you in gladly. We love you a lot. And I know they do. They mean what they say. A wonderful cushion. This sadness might have turned toward depression if not for them and their support.
And the support of others. The Ancient Brothers. My two mussar groups. Friends like Luke, Tom, Alan. Family like Diane. You all hold me up, keep me from sinking. This water is deep and often black, but I can swim when I know I have lifeguards at the ready.
This is a time of opening my heart. Glad you’re there.
