My body was built for a temperate climate; a place where daytime temperatures would range between 73°F and 83°F and nighttime lows would drop into the low to mid 60s, giving me reason to wear light sweaters or jackets. My personality, on the other hand, was built for the desert; where inhospitably hot weather, scorpions, poisonous snakes, and thorny cactus tend to cause people to keep their distance. In spite of my construction, physically and mentally, I am reasonably adaptable. With the right clothes, an efficient air conditioner and heater, and a nice fireplace, I can adjust to both hot and cold weather. Similarly, I can reconcile with low humidity, stinging winds blowing sand in my eyes, and the threat of injury inflicted by unfriendly flora and fauna…provided I have a swimming pool that is maintained by a professional pool person. Like most people, though, my adaptability is not as limited as the previous sentences might suggest. I have the ability to cope with a much wider range of conditions. My ability is not the obstacle. The issue lies in how willing—or unwilling—I am to accept circumstances beyond the limits of my comfort zone. We’re all like that, I think. Though we might think living in a hot, steamy jungle full of venomous creatures would be intolerable, for instance, plenty of people do. They do because, for the most part, they have no choice. They adapt. I could, too. I could live in a one-room house with a dirt floor and a leaky roof and cracks in the walls that allow wind to blow hot or cold air and sand inside. I would not want to live there, but I could. If my choices were to live there or to plunge off a high cliff to the rocks below, though, I might have to weigh the pros and cons of each before deciding which to choose.
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A Bedtime Story for the Little Ones
Little Bobby Jones did not know how his adventure would end. He knew only that the allure of the cave entrance was too powerful to leave, without first exploring what he might find in the darkness inside the mountain. The entrance to the cave looked innocent enough; just another crack wide enough to allow him to slide in and—if he were lucky—get to see beautiful stalactites and stalagmites. Bobby did not give a thought to the possibility that, beyond the entrance, he would encounter something so terrifying that his blood would run cold. He did not expect to be trapped, with no way to escape. When he realized he had been lured into the Gates of Hell, though, it was too late. For the next 500 years, Bobby would experience the immeasurably hot flames of Satan’s den and the agony of demonic creatures ripping at his melting flesh with sharp and slimy teeth. It was just that kind of danger that his mother, Susan Jones, had warned him to avoid. But Bobby did not heed his mother’s advice. And the penalty for ignoring his mother was 500 excruciating years of the most horrific experience he would ever have. Until the 2nd stretch of 500 years, which would be tens of thousands of times worse. The moral of this story: if your mother warns you to stay out of caves, the choice you make in response to her admonition may have unfathomably monstrous consequences. But it is your choice to make.
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It’s back to the oncology clinic this morning for another infusion of IV fluids. Then, on December 1, I return for a PET-scan, after which I go back to review the results of the scan on December 3 with the doctor. The seemingly never-ending saga of treatments for terminal cancer. Terminal, though, has an indeterminate end-point. I am hoping for seventy-two more active and comfortable years, but that may be unrealistic. I would happily take 10. Or 5. Or whatever…within reason.
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Can the sky be meretricious?
