no vowels

Two nights ago I had a dream.  I had written a play without vowels.  Each performance, the cast would decide what to say, not knowing, of course, how the other characters might respond.  "Lvd," for example, might morph into "loved," "lived," or "livid."  Comedy, tragedy, or simple confusion might result.

Some of you might know that Biblical Hebrew was once such a vowel-free language, before the spoilsport scholars added their jots and tittles, morphing divine ambiguity into human certitude.  As the history of religion has proven, there's neither fun nor safety in that.

Rich's adventure in Tumorland is, perhaps, the source of my dream.  I'm following him into a land where the jots and tittles are missing, and this leaves lots of wriggle room.  Too much, sometimes.  For how long will the surgery still the tumor?  Is another round of Sutent worth the discomfort and risks?  Will the "new normal" be better than the old?

Improv -- here we come!

Candace

a hundred years

Rich says he's not sure if he can go alone to a couple of his New York medical appointments while I meet a friend at my favorite pastry shop.  It's two weeks in the future.

"That's a hundred years from now," I say.

Or, he says, what about tomorrow, will I have the energy to take a shower ---

"A hundred years from now."

Okay, what about doing the laundry after breakfast --

"Fifty years."

There's a terrific feeling of relief in all of this.  Everything is a hundred years away. Who knows what can happen between now and the next moment?  Another crack of the neck, another rash, another bout of exhaustion -- or, a reversal of it all.  Or, at least, relief from imaging what could happen next, and when, or even why.

Candace

a quiet room

I'm writing this in the library, in the "quiet" room.  People have difficulty with this, I notice.  They whisper in voices that, as a background hiss, are more interruptive than out-loud speech.  They rustle newspapers. They're not aware that, coming and going, they're noise-making machines.

Right now, I'm craving silence, rest, peace.  A month or so by an ocean, my only obligations to write, walk, write -- a fantasy.

I'm here.  Most of the time, with Rich, who now that the steroids have worn off is realizing he really does need rest more than work, and lots of food (emphasis on sweet re-charges), and trying to make sense of itchy rashes and pops in his neck and extremity pain.

So I listen, I shop, I cook, and try to re-charge.  Rich's job is harder, and there's no fantasy to follow.

Candace

dinner at the pom pom diner

Nine of us examine the menu.  

One of us has a plastic tube snaking down his leg, encased in a bandage from knee to ankle.  He's in town to get rid of his bladder cancer and kidney blockage.  He looks fit and says he's feeling fine.

Another walks in supported by his cane and his wife, and quietly sits in the booth, re-adjusting to the world.

Our host orders a hamburger (make it medium-rare) with a side of fries and a bottle of root beer.

"I tried being a vegetarian for a week," she says.  "I found myself looking for pieces of meat buried under anything."

Still, she wants to pretend she's eating wholesome.

"Do you have whole wheat rolls?" she asks the waitress.

"You're too far down the road," I say.  "Go for it."

What the hell, she agrees.  White is fine.

I order two wraps to go, one for me, one for Rich.  An hour ago we arrived from the hospital, back at Miracle House, my home in New York for the past week.  Rich can't walk the two blocks, yet, but it's a wonder that he survived this most recent war on his body and, well...looks normal.  

This meal is free, provided by donations.  What we have in common, at this table, is serious surgery (liposuction gets no points here) or loving those who are being treated.  Our host is a Miracle House volunteer, setting a tone of kindness combined with laughter.  Lots of laughter amid "isn't this a small world..." exclamations.  

Strangers, but we discover we know the same people, went to the same schools, or once lived within a few blocks of one another.

What makes us laugh, though, is something deeper.  We're all facing something incomprehensible, terrifying, sad -- but underneath it all we've found the buried piece of meat that we're craving.

What the hell.  Why settle for a morsel, here or there?

We're too far down the road.

We're going for it.

Candace 

 

morning tea

I'm still in bed when the phone rings.

Rarely is this a reason to smile.

"Come," Rich says.  "I'm in so much pain."

I start babbling, saying I just woke up, I'll be there as soon as I can, what's going on...but he already is disconnected.

I brush my teeth, quickly wash, put on yesterday's shorts and T-shirt.  Forget the shower.

But I don't forget to open my tea packet, boil water, add milk, and sip my morning mug of english breakfast.

The best antidote to insanity, I think, is to fake normalcy through a daily practice (see Gus' comment).  

And an image used by Thich Nhat Hanh comes to mind.  

Look at a tree, he says.  In the breeze, its leaves and branches swing this way, that way.  These are our emotions, going here, going there, directed by an outer force.  To a tree, this is normal.

Now, look at a mountain.  Solid.  A storm may chip off an edge here or there, but the mountain knows its strength.  To a mountain, this is normal.

Life is more fun as a mountain.  The emotions will pass.  The pain will (it did) pass.

And the tea was good.

Candace

  

this isn't normal

These days are not normal.  I eat food from Rich's hospital tray.  I awake, go to the hospital, do nothing all day and am exhausted by the end.  I listen to the neurosurgeon say Rich is doing well, even though today Rich was pumped full of painkillers that I thought were sold only on the street and, still, they don't make him happy.  They don't "kill" the pain, either.  Pain, or its relatives, keep coming back.

But Rich must get well.  So he can return to the chemotherapy and get sick again.

This can't be normal.

And then I get on the bus and am surrounded by conversations -- mostly on cell phones -- that have absolutely nothing to do with any of this, and I want to shout, don't you know that nothing you're saying matters?

Maybe normal isn't worth it.

Candace