Woke up with another headache. Not as heavy as the last one. I got some blue rub, pushing out a little piece from the holder. The stick is almost gone. I had woken up around four. Jesse and I went outside to pee. There was a dog howling in the distance. It sounded like some primal cry. Was it hurt? I don’t know. These night time sounds can be a little haunting.
I somehow managed to go back to sleep. The second time I woke up it had just gone past eight. Coffee in bed. Another episode of the morning show. Alex has started dating a billionaire. Scary. Are billionaires scary? I don’t know. I only know a handful of millionaires and they are not more or less scary than any other human I know. The billionaire is played by John Hamm. Perfect choice for the character. I’d date him. Oops.
Margit is away this morning so no wood collecting. At least not until she returns from the church daisies to Malnas-Bai.
I roll out my rug rag in the grass and lie down. I stare at the willow weaving in the wind. These tall branches all grew while I was away. Tangible progress and growth.
I think about my own year. It’s a bit early for New Year’s Eve reminiscing but I am feeling it. What has this year brought me? Dunno.
I had a conversation with my uncle yesterday afternoon. He had messaged me beforehand sometime last week quietly asking me if I was ready to talk. We talked about so many things. He asked me about plans and progress. Has there been any interest in the house yet, how am I going about selling it. What will I do next. Again, dunno.
I realized that everything has become entwined with my body and the mystery mass. These rogue cells are taking up too much space, literally and figuratively. I broke down into tears.
I haven’t cried properly in while. My tears as stuck as my writing. Maybe there is a connection there too.
I told him how most days I muddle along and am ok. As ok as one can be in such uncertainty. I said: I don’t want anymore scans. I don’t want anymore interference and panic and waiting room anxiety. I just want to live.
It’s as if I need to let go of cancer to make space for life. In a way it’s almost like playing pretend. What would I do with my life if there is no cancer? And then when I find out, go do that.
Some time around 2013 I had said this to my GP: “I am going to pretend I don’t have cancer until my body falls for it too.” I guess it was my version of Joe Dispenza s you are the placebo. It seemed to have worked back then. At least for a while. Why did it come back? Why won’t life just let me be?
Today looking at the willow I think it again: I don’t want to have to do this. I just don’t. Fuck it, I am done with this. Not doing this.
Like dominoes a string of memories come. Painful memories tied together by a common theme: abandonment. I have been left to my devices so often by so many people that it has become my way to be. Singular. Solitary.
I also think about how all those memories don’t have to determine anything. Not what I do, who I am. They can be cancelled right now. Any conditioning, identification, limitation held in those memories can be let go of. I believe that. I know it’s not as easy as cutting my toe nails (bad example as they grow back) but also not impossible.
Why do we often feel we have done something wrong? When someone treats us badly or when a bad thing happens. Do I still see my cancer as some kind of punishment? Did I do something wrong?
No of course not. Because then that would mean this applies to everyone else too and that makes no sense. My uncle Cor was one of the best people ever. He had cancer. He died from sepsis. Very bad things. He had done nothing wrong.
I look again at the willow branches waving in the wind. It’s a kind of hypnotic dance from left to right and back. There is a rhythm to it.
Does the wind punish the trees? Do stars fade out of spite for the darkness of the night? Does a river smooth out stones because the sharp edges need to be pay for what they have done?
Nope.
After Findhorn I cut wood for a while. Have another coffee. Make and eat some oatmeal.
My headache persists so I am slow and not strong. But my body wants to move. I take it for a walk to the dried and dug up river bank. Looking for a place to sit and stare I pick another willow tree. I spot something sparkly. A broken stone reveals crystals. I pick it up and carry it home. I am 47 years old and I am still like that kid collecting rocks and fossils and shells in their pocket. Although this one didn’t quite fit in my pocket.
And I am 48. This years birthday doesn’t seem to count for anything. I want a do over. One that doesn’t include feeling displaced and a mysterious cancer diagnosis.
Is my generative capacity stalled because of illness? Has cancer put me in freeze mode: If I don’t move then the cells won’t grow. Let’s just stay very still and then nothing will happen..
Exactly. Nothing will happen. My own human growth oes not equate cancer cells multiplying, you daft woman.
Is my creativity blocked by illness: is it because I am too low on energy to feel creative. Am I being zapped by the rogue cells. I don’t think that is true. According to oncology they have been there for a few years. Only two years ago I was beaming and bursting. Can my body still thrive? Can I create even when “low”? Did I let my knowing of the presence of the cells become an excuse for procrastination? I should be writing pages as if the Devil is on my heels.
Is illness a mirror of blockage? Ehmmmm
Margit said: Don’t pay any attention to it. Like an unwanted admirer who will eventually vaniach if you ghost them long enough. What you feed grows, it is the law of energy. So, what if….
Pretend I don’t have cancer until my body falls for it too. There’s a kind of creative experiment in that. Not feeding the illness, but feeding life.
Where is the line between “not feeding” and “pretending it doesn’t exist”? How do I reconcile the desire for freedom with my body’s reminders? Like this shitty headache, my legs aching when going uphill, having to stop to catch my breath every twenty meters, the slowed pace? The pain in my left lower back, where the biopsy needle went in. Is that still from the nerve they hit when going to deep (apparently four slices wasn’t enough so they went for a fifth, which pushed my bodies limits).
How do I release myself from all of it. I don’t want to play the role of the noble vicitm, the inspiring patient. I have nothing to perform. They are like the stories we tell ourselves. The memories we let dictate the future, punish us in the present.
Cancel. Cancel.
Raluca said yesterday, this year has gone way too fast. I feel I barely lived it. It reminded me of how I once learned to live a thousand lifetimes in a day. A skill that now painfully eludes me. “I am trying to slow down time. When I have figured it out, I will let you know.”