Brace For Impact.
Despite over two years of constant chemotherapy treatment, I feel more like a cancer patient this morning than I have in several months. Perhaps it is the cold weather that has my chest feeling tight, the draw of each breath a careful ‘in through the nose, out through the mouth’ thought. Maybe it’s the multiple nights of restless sleep. I suppose it could be an excess amount of caffeine in my system (not bloody likely). Knowledge that this could be our last weekend of freedom is also a concern. From any perspective, this morning presents a rare struggle to complete a simple sentence. I type a few words, stop to take deliberate breaths, and then take another drink of coffee.
Cancer numbers are up, which surprises no one that I know. Anecdotally, I could have told you that the many forms of cancer are skewing toward younger females just by surveying the women who befriend me on social media. Cancer isn’t waiting until people hit the age of 50 or older before it strikes. Black and Native Americans are dying at rates two to three times higher than white patients even as more cancers become treatable. We look for someplace to lay the blame. Our diets? Yes. Our lifestyles? Yes. Genetics? Yes. Just plain old bad luck? Absolutely.
Researchers are quick to say that we have a lot of control in mitigating the risks of getting cancer, but once it latches onto us, what then? Take a look at all the medicine bottles lined up on my desk. The biggest bottle, of course, is the chemo that I take each morning right after breakfast. There are two medications to address my sugar levels. But then, there are also meds to protect my kidney because the diabetes meds mistreat it a bit. There are also meds to keep nausea at bay. Lipitor keeps my cholesterol in check. Other meds attempt to control my mood and anxiety, though I’m not sure how well they’re working. All in all, it takes fifteen minutes every morning to get all my meds down, and that’s after I’ve gone on a scavenger hunt to see where the cats hid the bottles.
I’ll admit to being a little jealous of those who go through six to eight rounds of chemo and then get to ring a bell. I still have two months to go, and after that, there’s a chance that my situation could get worse. After all, two years is a long time for one’s body to adjust to the poison it’s being fed. There are days, like today, and yesterday, and pretty much all this week, when it feels as if this suffering is never going to end. I keep asking Kat to shoot me. She continually refuses to do so.
In through the nose, out through the mouth. We can do this, right? RIGHT?
Making matters worse, hell quite literally freezes over on Monday. The current forecasts show Monday morning’s low to be an icy -4F. Tuesday could be as low as -7. Fortunately, the kids don’t have school on Monday. The collision of complete ideological opposites on the 20th is something I don’t think has gotten enough attention.
On one hand, we got this email from the school yesterday:
Dear Parents and Students,
This is a reminder that there will be no school on Monday, January 20, 2025, in observance of the Martin Luther King Jr. Holiday.
We encourage everyone to take this time to reflect on the values of equality, justice, and service that Dr. King dedicated his life to promoting.
At the same time, though, we’re re-inaugurating what the Associated Press refers to as ‘American Carnage.‘ While checks and balances put a practical limit on what Felonius Punk can do on Day 1, there is no question that the nation is bracing for impact as the oligarchs take a hammer and chisel to our country. Yes, the use of those words is intentional.
Somehow, we’re supposed to juxtapose those opposites even as our brains and bodies are freezing. I’m pretty sure Dr. King and associates would be up in arms to see what is happening, but there are no big marches planned this year. Lawsuits are the weapon of choice this time around. They’ll take longer, cost more money, and will have questionable outcomes, but then, so did the marches of four years ago. Personally, I’m kind of with Lt. Col. Bill Kilgore in the movie ‘Apocalypse Now,’ when he said, “There’s nothing like the smell of napalm in the morning.” Especially if it’s DC that’s burning.
Oh, I’ve added to my social media spread. You can now find me on BlueSky Social at @ciletbetter.bsky.social. I’m not expecting it to take the place of anything else, but, in the words of ‘The Little Mermaid,’ “I want to be where the people are.”
I think I’m done for this morning. Pinball (cat #9) wants to snuggle. He’s not giving me a choice.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Friday Morning Update: 11/22/24
Rain washes away the snow, leaving only a hint of the momentary wonderland that existed across the yard. An old song suggests, “Forget your troubles, come on, get happy; You better chase all your cares away.” But there is no rain that washes away the pain of cancer or removes the struggle to breathe. No river removes the stain of poor decisions. We struggle to find words, any words, that might communicate the density of the cloud over our mind. None of the pictures I’ve ever taken portray such chaos as that which consumes my being. Temptation urges me to give up, go to bed, and sleep until the world is better, but the world only declines the invitation to improve.
Drama capped Tipper’s trip to Purdue. The bus driver was ready to leave at one time, the guides were expecting to leave later, and their final departure was too late to return to school on time. Waiting parents were upset. Students were frustrated by the apparent incompetency of adults. Who will tell them that too many of the issues they face in high school continue to plague them into adulthood? Is this all they will remember of the trip? No one was left behind. No child was endangered. Everyone returned home. The lesson is to acknowledge the mistakes and move forward.
Trouble makes for an interesting conversation. Anger pushes passion into our speech. We use our words to make trivial issues matter. In the blizzard of emotion, we lose sight of reality. I am not dying today. Control over tomorrow is still mine. Whatever complicates my life is but a nuisance to my existence. Politicians make imaginary threats to pique my fears, but can I choose not to be afraid?
Words fall empty when there is no genuine power behind them. I fuel my own life, such as it may be. Attempts to diminish my existence are folly. The feet in my boots are still mine; I control my path and the steps I take. If I need assistance I request it, but the denial of that request does not keep me from moving forward. When I cannot walk, I will crawl. The day I can no longer crawl, I will employ a mobility device. Frequent naps do not hinder my progress. I choose to move forward, and the world will adjust accordingly.
Warrants may be issued. Threats can be made. Weapons might be aimed. Still, when darkness falls at the end of the day, do we not ask ourselves what has changed? I might question whether I could make a difference, but when I cannot, I accept no blame for the outcome. I am not required to follow a leader I did not choose and do not trust. My loyalty lies not with those who do not know my name, but with those I love, those whose care and existence matter to my sense of humanity. I can protect what matters without ceding an ounce of power to any despot.
Sixty-one years ago, a president was assassinated. Who shot who matters little. The consequences of those actions cannot be changed. Lives taken, no matter where, are not returned. We cannot change what someone else chooses to do after the act is done. A moment that has passed immediately becomes part of a history from which we are obligated to learn. We must answer the questions of how we might stop the bombs from falling and the bullets from being fired. Yet, we cannot change the conscience of those whose minds are committed to evil.
Our choice is to follow paths that magnify our own power. M.I.T. offers free tuition to help a new generation stand on their feet. In California, a 17-year-old woman became the youngest person to pass that state’s bar exam. US overdose deaths have dropped, even though no one is exactly sure why. Better paths exist, though perhaps not lit by neon signs. We choose to find those paths. We choose to make our world better.
The fogginess that clouds my mind and leaves me staring at this page does not prevent me from refilling my coffee cup, giving belly rubs to a dog, or cuddling a cat. My bank account may be empty, but there is enough food to feed the family. Each step may be taken with trepidation, yet do I not still walk? I will eat the food that I prepare. I will take the medicines and endure the poison. My day will continue. Naps shall be my fortress of solitude.
Forward is the path I choose.
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