The paradox of education is precisely this – that as one begins to become conscious one begins to examine the society in which he is being educated.
~ James Baldwin ~
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A couple of night ago, when films and other video entertainment again failed to engage me, I turned to a mixture of music; traditional folk, modern folk, rock, alternative (whatever that means), and others. But my memory, rusted almost shut by chemo and age, forced me to search for tunes that used to reside near the surface of my brain. The names of artists, too, hid beneath dimming scraps of visual images; I recognized their hazy pictures in my mind, but recalling their identities required me to dislodge their names from layers of the sediment of time. Finally, performers began to come into sensory focus. Their individual images and music and identities fused enough for me to make musical selections. The Avett Brothers; Liam Clancy; Gianmaria Testa; The Killers; The Decemberists; The Foo Fighters; etc., etc., etc. Near the time (hours or days before or after)I listened to that stream of music, mi novia played music by Pink Martini, Jesse Cooke, and a selection of tunes by classical artists. Reclining in a comfortable seat, listening to an eclectic collection of music, can be far more relaxing and entertaining than watching action thrillers or police procedurals or, even, films classified as “high art.” A short while ago, as I was skimming the New York Times online “Performances in New York” section, I learned that the Avett Brothers‘ Broadway musical, “Swept Away,” will end its run after only 15 weeks. I had never heard of it until this morning. That’s so often true of so much; I learn something new, only to find it disappearing into history.
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This morning will mark my fifth day of radiation therapy for the recurrence of lung cancer. Six years ago, each session was quick; this time, it seems to go by even faster. Last time, the side-effects left me with difficult and painful swallowing, fatigue, and “burns” on my chest and back. I hope to avoid the swallowing issues this time (assuming the radiation beam will not pass through my esophagus). If I use the skin treatment prescribed by the doctor, I may avoid the burns. The fatigue, though, is essentially assured, especially in light of the fact that chemo guarantees the same side-effect. But I can deal with them. I proved that the last time through.
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We attended the World Tour of Wines (Spain and Portugal) dinner last night. I assumed I would feel sufficiently well to participate, because almost three weeks have passed since my last chemo session. And I did. Up to a point. By the time we left, though—a tad earlier than most people—I felt wiped out. The wine must have been the culprit. My consumption of alcohol has declined to the point it has become quite the rarity during my treatments. Free-flowing wine (five types…I opted for just a tiny sip of the sixth, an unappetizingly sweet Moscato) hit me with the power of a freight train. This morning, though. Last night, during wine-lubricated conversations, my sister-in-law agreed to drive me to this morning’s appointment, allowing mi novia a break so she can pick up around the house in preparation for a house-cleaner next week. I do not consider that a break.
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Truth can be a sword or a scalpel.
