I’ve been trying to think of ways to come back to writing after that last post, and failing. So here I am, engaged in the blogging equivalent of shuffling my feet.
How’re you doing?
Fine, fine. And you?
Oh fine, fine.
And the truth is, I am fine. Well, as far as I know, I am. On Saturday I got a little scared at the sheer amount of blood and had a few touch-and-go moments as I found myself trying to weigh and measure at what point I could in good conscience decide it was time to break up everyone’s holiday for a festive jaunt to the ER. But, thankfully, it never came to that. Holiday business went on, unhindered. Distractions abounded. Merriment dissolved into inevitable exhaustion. The lather, rinse, repeat of life proceeded as usual, as it should.
I went to sleep every night hoping the blood would stop. It didn’t. But this morning, I think it finally has. Tomorrow at 10am I go in for the ultrasound, my first since I was pregnant with the kid 9 bajillion years ago. I never thought I’d have another in my lifetime, and certainly not to find out if something dark and sinister is growing inside me – my own personal furiously dividing mutant-celled Rosemary’s Baby. And yes, I absolutely did have to find the creepiest possible way to think about all of this, why do you ask?
Mostly, I’ve been watching Deadwood. I needed something to train my consciousness on, and man oh man there’s nothing like the filthy, hard, desperate times of the Old West to make you appreciate how good even those of us potentially riddled with cancer have it now. Back then, the best I could’ve expected under the given circumstances would’ve been a brisk pat on the back, a shot of whisky, and a grimy towel to plug myself up with.
Get busy living, or get busy dying.
You hear the ring of truth in those simple words, and so do I. Because whatever’s going on in my body at this moment, dire or benign, I need to train my eyes past it and keep on living. To paraphrase Tom Stoppard, there is only one direction any of us is headed in, and time is its only measure. Who knows how far we will travel – how great the distance, or how many sunrises and sunsets will pass before we reach that single, culminating destination. Tragically short or blissfully long, we must keep on going: inhaling, exhaling, and moving ever forward. We’re still here, and so there’s still time.
