Hope is the province of poker players whose options are to flee from the game at top speed or bluff until pistols take their places on the table.
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Political Will: U.S. voters—whose political perspectives are shaped by either one of the two far-ends of the political spectrum—firmly believe their opponents represent a serious danger to our brand of democracy. While I understand the intensity of the concerns held by those on the far left, and certainly share a number of them, I am not able to completely grasp the frenzied fear of those on the far right. Whether I understand them or not, though, those concerns should be explored and addressed, just as should be those of concern to the political left. Throwing insults back and forth does nothing but inflame an already dangerously chaotic situation. Both ends of the spectrum of the war of words—and worse—should approach the other’s from a nonjudgmental, analytical, solution-focused perspective. Everyone who has a serious concern or fear of the other “side” should articulate the concerns and should be encouraged to adopt a compassionate, rational, process for dealing with their adversaries. Until politically moderate leaders take center stage—people who have sufficient charisma to be believable and command attention—the animosity will only get worse. Rationality is an absolutely necessary component of whatever “solutions” may exist.
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Every Waking Moment’s Topic of the Instant: My online reading of the report from yesterday’s brain MRI indicates all’s well, physically, inside my head. There is NO EVIDENCE cancer cells have taken up residence inside the hard protective shell. To summarize the radiologist’s impression:
- No acute intracranial process.
- No abnormal enhancement. No large intracranial mass or metastasis.
- Moderate, age-appropriate, atrophy.
Inasmuch as I did not suspect my cancer had metastasized to my brain, the findings were pretty much as I expected, although the concept of moderate, age-appropriate atrophy is not one I like applied to my brain. My primary curiosity, at the moment, is the status of the spots of cancer that earlier showed up on PET-scans and CT-scans. Ever since the discovery of cancer’s recurrence, late last year, too many aspects of our lives have revolved around aging, illness, death, mortality, and disease. Understanding and dealing with the eventual realities of mortality are wearying endeavors. Even though the effects of lung cancer and its treatment can be difficult, it has been only an irritant…an annoyance…to me. Compared to the hellish ordeal experienced by so many others, my encounter has been relatively…maybe extremely…mild. So mild that the care and concern heaped upon me can seem embarrassingly undeserved and unnecessary. But, then, when I cannot seem to get through the day without taking multiple naps and without feeling sometimes intense and mysterious pains, I feel like I am going through a targeted ordeal meant to teach me lessons I have not yet begun to understand. And, then, of course, I express frustration at myself for buying into the idea that anything is meant to be. My patience, never admirable nor especially well-developed, is under test. Every obstacle is a random expression of reality that has not yet been molded and shaped to serve as an opportunity.
Two more weeks until my next round of chemo-therapy; but I go back in next Thursday for labs and, possibly, a brief follow-up visit with the oncologist or her nurse. I cannot plan to take a day or two or three to get out of town for a break without being contacted to come get a magnesium infusion or an injection to fight infections or an IV drip to interrupt the process of dehydration. I am glad the treatments are readily available and, thanks to insurance, are not leaving us destitute for the moment. But, really…hours and hours and hours lost to fighting a battle whose success is not assured. Maybe simple surrender would be a more appropriate response. Ach! Bitch. Moan. Repeat.
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Forced Cranial Nudity: My newly-bald head does not please me as much as I might have hoped. I may have shaved too soon; while a fair amount of hair fell out during a two-day period, there was still considerable hair remaining when I opted to have it cut (have I mentioned that Jeremy, my barber, would not allow me to pay him when he took the clippers to my head?). Since then, hair keeps on growing all over my head; the follicles are few and far between, but I might have preferred thin to none. The haircut revealed certain aspects of my face and head that look quite a lot like my father, a bit of a shock and a surprise to me. In the past, I’ve occasionally noticed some particular resemblance, but a couple of recent head-shots seem to have collected them in a single photo. I’ve addressed the appeal of nudity in earlier posts. Freedom from the constraints of clothing. An opportunity to adjust one’s thinking, so that naked bodies—regardless of shape, size, color, scars, the smoothness of a marble or the softness of duck down—are normal and natural and off-limits for mockery. Mi novia went into the rabbit warren yesterday, stumbling upon nudist camps’ policies, philosophies, etc. Those of us who have little or no experience with public nudity tend to find intentional nudism somewhat shocking and inexplicable. But, like so many practices with which we have little familiarity, the more we learn the more we know and the more we know the more we understand and the more we understand the greater our opportunities for serenity and acceptance of the world as it is, rather than how we might have hoped it to be.
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Some days last forever. No matter how hard one tries to send them packing, those fiercely persistent days will not move on. They stay, sharpening their teeth and nails until achieving a razor-like edge that can slice through diamonds and butter and bone. A scalpel under the control of a painful memory can leave pools of mayhem.
