My neighbor, the one who apparently has witnessed every scream, giggle, and crazy tent building episode in my backyard, found out I had cancer today. I had assumed she'd witnessed the day I had my kids shave my head on my deck, the mornings I walked around bald in my own backyard free of my hats and scarves, the evenings I struggled to walk around the block, just once, in my blotted state five days after my chemotherapy. I had assumed she'd heard the gossip, saw the others bringing soup, or wondered why my yard suddenly went unattended with its maze of weeds after four summers of weekly preening and prepping.
Yet, she had not. She lived right there over the fence waving high as she picked up her dog poop and told me about how her prized male died suddenly, the puppy was welcomed home and then the female fell ill to cancer. Yes, she lived, well actually she is still alive so...she lives quite parallel but never was aware of my journey which has suddenly arrived at two and one half years long. So I wondered what her heart echoed as I nauchuauntly told her that I am freezing every night because I essentially passed through menopause while going through chemotherapy three summers ago. Her eyes reflected guarded empathy as she passed me a bottle of her daughter's, or was it her sister's, wait, now who is the awesome neighbor with the great memory for detail? I mean...when she gave me this bottle of mist to try for hot flashes. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I no longer have them, I am just cold all the time like my 80 year old grandmother. I will pass the mist on to a dear friend still sweating in her PJs from time to time as her vessel on Earth goes through the Change.
I have strayed from my real pondering. What do you think when I say I have cancer? Because that is it, I have cancer. I don't had cancer. I am not fighting cancer. I am just living with cancer like a really bad roommate I want to evict, but, heck, he pays for the bills so I can't. What do you think? I will tell you what I thought cancer was just four years ago. I thought it is bald, grey faced, ugly, unlikely, scary, death, vomiting, shitting, and heck, maybe even body parts falling off in the street. So if I say I AM cancer in that I am what it looks like to live with cancer, is it surprising that I might whisper that I am a runner. Well, I jog really slowly with the main purpose of keeping this vessel of Earth as physically fit as I can just in case I have to go through chemotherapy again. And, this summer, I finally have my hair back. The hair that is naturally highlighted to near perfection by the summer sun. I keep hearing I have a great hair cut. That is awesome since I had it cut at Cost Cutters four months ago on a whim simply because I didn't like how it was. A cut couldn't make it any worse. That is awesome you applaud how it looks now. So I am not whithered up in hospice care dying...yet. But, there is a lot about me that has died over the past three years. I struggle each day to fan a few embers back to the reality that was pretty freakin' awesome. Yes, my life is pretty freakin' awesome because I am still here and running around the block when my muscles aren't feeling like jello.
So there I go again off track. I am sorry you have to hear that I have cancer. I am sorry because I know that down behind the empathetic words and offers to assist my in some way that you aren't really sure is too helpful anyway, you are scared. And, I know this because I am too. It is no like I want to shout out, "Look, here is the new face of cancer this healthy vibrant 36 year old, nearly blond chica with a boob job." That is not a title I would like to take. But, it is one I have. So anyway, sorry I scared ya, and I am doing fine.
Today, by the way, I had the most awesome hike around Long Lake. I wish I had a camera for smells as my olefactory glands were in heaven.
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