“Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place.”
-- Susan Sontag
7/14/07
Upon getting the initial news that the MRI had picked up some worrisome enlarged lymph nodes, and that I was scheduled to see a cancer specialist the four days hence, I went into panic mode. I grabbed a hand held tape recorder, leashed up the dog and cried my way through those same woods that inspired Charlie Baxter’s novel The Feast of Love. At this first appointment I was given an optimistic assessment in which the worst case scenario was a low-grade lymphoma, which would require either watchful waiting or a minimally invasive (1 week) radiation treatment. Of course I would also need a CAT scan guided biopsy to check the lymph nodes for the possibility of malignancy. Hearing this and thinking my blubbering was an over-reaction, I confidently erased that first day’s cassette and forgot about it. One week later, having learned that the worst case would have been a blessing, I went to transcribe and a lonely hiss ensued.
A bit of advice I’ve heard repeatedly is to keep a journal. O.K. So now I’m sitting here stuck. Funny how those brilliant ideas on what to write disappear when one actually sits down to do it. One of four questions cancer patients are encouraged to ask themselves is: “Why do you need this illness.” Hmmmm. Well… thinking myself a sophisticated high brow, what other condition would ever compel me to read a book by Lance Armstrong? Or, perhaps subconsciously I’ve always wanted to wear an Elvis wig. Or, It’s given me a chance to experiment with taking pain medication non-recreationally. Perhaps I’ve craved the opportunity to see how good my health benefits are. You want serious? It’s a chance for me show I can deal with adversity gracefully. See you later.
7/15/07
“January 18,1922. A moment of thought: Resign yourself, learn to rest content in the moment. Yes, in the moment, the terrible moment. It is not terrible, only your fear of the future makes it so.”
-- Franz Kafka
They say to “stay in the moment”: but what if it’s a moment of fear or dread? What then? Abandon the moment? Flee to the imagination? Trade uncertainty for despondency? “Oh heavy lightness!”
It’s a beautiful morning: 70 degrees, sun drenched sky, lazy clouds, coffee, iced cinnamon buns, the buzz of the cicada. Spending 60 days in solitary in a late 19th century jail gave me an appreciation for mornings. The one escape from the terrors of life is sleep: “Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care/the balm of hurt minds.” Morning follows the nourishment of unconsciousness. Morning meant one more day of my sentence behind me, a time to mark the endless calendars counting the days until my release. Then, as now, the optimism of the new day confirmed my conviction that the present is good in itself; a beauty enhanced by its disconnect with past and future. These days are like the time between my sentence and confinement then. I knew I was about to learn the pain of isolation, of loneliness, of the feeling that the world was passing me by. This analogy, albeit a loose one, seems appropriate for the journey I’m about to embark on. Even though I’ve no pain yet--excepting the unrelenting, dull, low grade, ache of the symptoms I sought relief from—I’ve had an epiphany of sorts. Having my wits about me, and an imagination undistracted by the trials of the moment has allowed me to focus clearly on what it means to confront my own mortality; to concretize the all too human abstraction that death is always something that happens to someone else. It also provides a rational foundation for bloggings to come that will undoubtedly have an emotional charge that can only be understood by these early notes and asides. Or, maybe I’m indulging in a histrionic psychodrama that is sorely in need of some severe de-mythologizing. Oh well. I’ll keep you posted.
-- Susan Sontag
7/14/07
Upon getting the initial news that the MRI had picked up some worrisome enlarged lymph nodes, and that I was scheduled to see a cancer specialist the four days hence, I went into panic mode. I grabbed a hand held tape recorder, leashed up the dog and cried my way through those same woods that inspired Charlie Baxter’s novel The Feast of Love. At this first appointment I was given an optimistic assessment in which the worst case scenario was a low-grade lymphoma, which would require either watchful waiting or a minimally invasive (1 week) radiation treatment. Of course I would also need a CAT scan guided biopsy to check the lymph nodes for the possibility of malignancy. Hearing this and thinking my blubbering was an over-reaction, I confidently erased that first day’s cassette and forgot about it. One week later, having learned that the worst case would have been a blessing, I went to transcribe and a lonely hiss ensued.
A bit of advice I’ve heard repeatedly is to keep a journal. O.K. So now I’m sitting here stuck. Funny how those brilliant ideas on what to write disappear when one actually sits down to do it. One of four questions cancer patients are encouraged to ask themselves is: “Why do you need this illness.” Hmmmm. Well… thinking myself a sophisticated high brow, what other condition would ever compel me to read a book by Lance Armstrong? Or, perhaps subconsciously I’ve always wanted to wear an Elvis wig. Or, It’s given me a chance to experiment with taking pain medication non-recreationally. Perhaps I’ve craved the opportunity to see how good my health benefits are. You want serious? It’s a chance for me show I can deal with adversity gracefully. See you later.
7/15/07
“January 18,1922. A moment of thought: Resign yourself, learn to rest content in the moment. Yes, in the moment, the terrible moment. It is not terrible, only your fear of the future makes it so.”
-- Franz Kafka
They say to “stay in the moment”: but what if it’s a moment of fear or dread? What then? Abandon the moment? Flee to the imagination? Trade uncertainty for despondency? “Oh heavy lightness!”
It’s a beautiful morning: 70 degrees, sun drenched sky, lazy clouds, coffee, iced cinnamon buns, the buzz of the cicada. Spending 60 days in solitary in a late 19th century jail gave me an appreciation for mornings. The one escape from the terrors of life is sleep: “Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care/the balm of hurt minds.” Morning follows the nourishment of unconsciousness. Morning meant one more day of my sentence behind me, a time to mark the endless calendars counting the days until my release. Then, as now, the optimism of the new day confirmed my conviction that the present is good in itself; a beauty enhanced by its disconnect with past and future. These days are like the time between my sentence and confinement then. I knew I was about to learn the pain of isolation, of loneliness, of the feeling that the world was passing me by. This analogy, albeit a loose one, seems appropriate for the journey I’m about to embark on. Even though I’ve no pain yet--excepting the unrelenting, dull, low grade, ache of the symptoms I sought relief from—I’ve had an epiphany of sorts. Having my wits about me, and an imagination undistracted by the trials of the moment has allowed me to focus clearly on what it means to confront my own mortality; to concretize the all too human abstraction that death is always something that happens to someone else. It also provides a rational foundation for bloggings to come that will undoubtedly have an emotional charge that can only be understood by these early notes and asides. Or, maybe I’m indulging in a histrionic psychodrama that is sorely in need of some severe de-mythologizing. Oh well. I’ll keep you posted.
5 comments:
I have heard that you are currently reading the Existentialists, so I thought I would comment with this:
The Myth of Sisyphus
"All Sisyphus' silent joy is contained therein. His fate belongs to him. His rock is his thing.
...he knows himself to be the master of his days...But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes all is well. The universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."
~Albert Camus
Please know that if you need anything, we are here for you.
Here is the link:
http://thegonzodiner.blogspot.com
I love you.
-B
I love you, Randy. You know that you have the support of all of us who care about you so much. I'll be here on the west coast cheering you on to recovery. I'm here for you anytime.
xo
Lindsay
Randy, you are in our thoughts every moment. We're in such a state of shock that words don't come easily to us, although they seem to flow from you with eloquence. Your blog is certainly a source of bonding to us and makes us feel close to you at this time. If we could have one wish granted right now, it would be for you to fully recover.
We love you dearly,
Les and Dianne
Randy
Your dreams sound pretty vivid! Fun reading your blog. Hope the first round of chemo goes alright and just know, I am thinking of you...
xo
Lindsay
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