Safety is a concept. A wish or dream or desire or promise or expectation or…who knows just what it is? One thing it is not, though, is concrete…no mass and no weight, it takes up no space. It is neither warm nor cold. Perhaps it is an imaginary condition; a status based entirely on either an emotional or a physical context. Or both. Or neither. Maybe it is an idea planted in our brains to minimize our natural fear of everything around us. Something to diffuse the terror embedded in circumstances. Though we’ve heard the phrase “seek shelter, go to a safe place,” we know safety is not a place. Safety could be a veil that introduces a translucent film in front of our eyes—a film that mitigates our view of the horrors confronting us. It’s maddening; not knowing what safety is, but wanting it desperately…regardless.
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I read something surprising yesterday. I read that Greenland sharks have a lifespan of 250 to 500 years. One such shark evaluated not long ago, according to the article, had a confirmed age of 400 years. That shark would have been born around the years 1625, the year King Charles declared Virginia, the Bermuda Islands, and New England to be royal colonies directly dependent upon the crown. Early that same year, led by the Duke of Soubise, the Huguenots launched a second rebellion against King Louis XIII, with a surprise naval assault on a French fleet being prepared in Blavet. Later that year, a Dutch fleet attacked the Portuguese garrison at Elmina castle at modern-day Elmina, Ghana, but was defeated with heavy casualties. I doubt the 400 year-old shark remembers those events. But I could be wrong.
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During my visit to the oncologist’s office in the Village yesterday, I learned I am to return again this afternoon to the office in Hot Springs for more IV fluids. And I am to return tomorrow for another infusion. And I have more visits scheduled next week. And a PET-scan on the 25th, with a follow-up visit to review the results on the 27th. The results of the PET-scan, according to the nurse practitioner’s comments yesterday, may enable the oncologist to give me an indication of the speed with which my cancer is progressing. Maybe. We shall see. By the way, yesterday was my oncologist’s birthday. Had I known in advance, I would have delivered a card. At least I saw her briefly and was able to wish her a happy birthday.
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Today’s the day for my long-awaited massage. I’ll go over this morning for a 50-minute professional massage. I have mixed feelings about it. I expect it will be delightfully relaxing, but I’m concerned that the tenderness in my gut and my back may make the experience less than ideal. I just have to remind myself that I can tell the masseuse to stop any manipulation that causes too much discomfort.
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My mind has been trying, ever since I woke this morning, to recall one or more dreams I had while I slept. So far, the effort has been unsuccessful. I get quick flashes of memory, but they disappear even before they register in my brain. I do not know why I am so curious to recall the dream(s); they must have been either delightful or terrifying.
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Enough typing for one morning.
