The address written on the envelope was penned in perfect, beautiful handwriting. The handwriting of the note on the Christmas card inside was just as spellbindingly perfect. And the message conveyed by that note was among the sweetest and most moving I have read. A friend from church sent the card, which encouraged me and delivered an admonishment to do what was necessary to take care of myself. For years, I have opted not to send Christmas cards—receiving this one, though, which was so sweet and uplifting, reminded me of how meaningful a thoughtful note can be at just the right time. Thank you, Marilyn.
Thinking of that sweet card brought my mind around to the Christmas gifts a good friend dropped by our house early this week. We haven’t opened them (it’s not time!), but we know already how much they mean to us. Close connections matter more than I once knew.
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There was a time not long ago that I thought traditions were, by and large, silly—bordering on superstitions. But time and, I suppose, sentimentality have eroded that judgment to a degree. Wisdom, too, may shoulder some of the responsibility for that change in attitude. Traditions can validate connections to personal histories and to certain people in one’s past. I do not delude myself into thinking traditions have any meaning to people who are no longer here to celebrate them. But I think traditions sometimes give us the freedom to express nostalgia in ways that are not mawkish. Wisdom comes into the equation, I think, in that it permits us to reject the notion that sentiment is a sign of emotional weakness. For men, especially, avoidance of being seen as weak is far too important; women, I think, have evolved into more emotionally intelligent creatures. I readily acknowledge that I find some…many…traditions irrelevant and wasteful; some, though, wash away the hardheartedness of day-to-day battles.
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Today marks the third consecutive year I will have missed the soup supper at church. My absence last year was due to my feeling under the weather; it’s more or less the same this year. Today also marks one year—give or take a few days—since I got the unnerving (but not unexpected) results of a CT scan that revealed the likely recurrence of lung cancer.
Several days prior to the CT scan, a blood test had suggested the possible return of the disease. It wasn’t until the following week that I got confirmation, by way of a PET-scan, of a recurrence of lung cancer. After five years. To cap off that deeply unpleasant news, my “under the weather” condition turned out to be pneumonia, which led to my hospitalization. Was it just once? I think I might have been hospitalized more than once for pneumonia early in the year; I am just not motivated to verify or invalidate that memory. The bulk of 2024 has been a grey quagmire, courtesy of my body’s reactions to the chemicals used in attempts to control my cancer. It’s not “my cancer.” It’s just cancer. But the fact that it is inhabiting my life, without permission, makes it “mine.” My enemy. My hated, loathsome companion.
I wish I knew the outcome of my treatments; and the treatments of my sisters-in-law and anyone else in my personal sphere who face the battles. But maybe I don’t really want to know any of the outcomes. Maybe I wish, instead, I could simply make cancer disappear. No maybes about it.
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