AND THEN THE CHEESECAKE

I am writing early in the morning and I’ve cut my medication a little, so that I won’t run on like a speed freak.

I will attempt to remember my writing manners and take the time to write a short blog.

The jungle drums have been beating lately and a stream of visitors pass through our place each day.

Too short visits to catch up with people I’ve known for 30 or 40 years but haven’t seen for that long.

My friends astonish me. Not only because they make so much effort to come but because it turns out life has tested us all so much. The stories are unbelievable  – and at this moment, in this situation, it feels like we are in the eye of the storm. It’s quiet and kind – and there’s a lot of laughter.

Everyone rises to the occasion. I won’t speak in euphemisms about this disease – and I watch or listen for the momentary catch in someone’s throat – and then watch as they rise above, man and woman up, understand not to play “maybe there’s a miracle cure.” We say “death” right out loud and stand our ground and it helps me so much not to have to pour energy into that dance of denial for the sake of protecting them.

This is a wonderful time for me. One of connection and reconnection, with all the little turds of disappointment, judgments and hurts I’ve clung to, floating merrily out to sea. I live almost constantly in the moment – a feat I could never accomplish when a stretch of tomorrow’s worries were with me. Right now is a wonderful place, but I suspect that through most of life, we are meant to be caught by this rushing world and only to surface long enough into peace to get the inkling that it’s all illusion.

If there is one word that sums up right now, it is “gratitude.” For the daily support of Wendy since day one. For Heather returning from the north and moving in…fitting in like the last missing piece of a puzzle. For so many sincere, strong people flowing back into my life. For sun rise and sun set and watching the gulls wheel in the sky before a weather change. For cheesecake and lentil stew and Heather’s blueberry oatmeal. I think you could hand me a child’s marble and I’d stare at it like it was the holy grail.

Today, I start treatment at 11:00 and I’m not scared. I know the Dave the Oncologist has plotted his map of the galaxy of my brain and done his best. And tonight, for supper, we have lots of wonderful healthy left-overs for supper (and a bit of cheesecake).

I’m picking up my bell and strolling through town, crying out, “All is well.”