I haven’t shied away from sharing the ebbs and flows of my cancer diagnosis. It’s no secret that more recently I have been deeply despondent. My downcast deriving from a marriage to my bed and rem curates a sense of unaccomplished existence. It’s just the price I pay in order to come back to life; lots of sleeps, stacks of missed moments in time, bridged with a loneliness that lingers while I repose in my cocoon, awaiting to spread my wings and become a butterfly. In the dark hours of the night, memory becomes your partner; fostered and cherished as you remind yourself of all the good times life has given you before it was decided that your world would turn upside down.
The opaque hours of the night also convey the things I want to do when recovered health fits me like a glove. This experience has allotted for mass self-discovery, but I want to also re-discover myself once this is all over and use the lessons I have learned from these happenings and run away with it. Traveling seems the best place to set myself completely free. There is a romance to traveling, no one knows who you are, what you have endured and there are no strings attached to anything, but being wide open for self-discovery and the rest of the world as well as all of its stories. Just the mere thought of travel pulls me out of these days that seem to be offering little hope. But the hope of being part of a vast organism to explore and create sustains that there is light at the end of this long, very dark tunnel.
Becoming more and more of a rarity, I was able to catch up with some of my wonderfully, lovely friends over this past weekend. I had slept enough the week prior and assembled up enough energy to revel in delectable margaritas, live music and some damn good company. Suddenly the silk screen of sadness and melancholy lifted and we all picked up exactly where we left off. Conversations about nothing and everything at the same time. It was fantastic to see them, catch up and regain some of the normalcy I so crave.
Today my chemotherapy treatment picked back up and although my levels were still not satisfactory, they were stable enough to move forward with treatment. Hopefully I will feel decent over the next few days and enjoy some moments. I guess the real moral of the story is that living is an art form, everyone’s picture is painted a little differently and truly knowing that, as death is at your door step day after day, the gift of breathing is a sort of constant euphoria, and to understand that gift is gloriously deliberate, unpremeditated divine gift of the few.