thunder

Thunder is now sleeping.  He's a cat, and he does this well.  His other skills include purring, eating, purring, eating, and looking out the window and wanting to kill, for the fun of it. There's a lot of human in him, except his fur is prettier.  And once we have some confidence that he knows his home base, he can go out and start munching the neighborhood mice and maybe put a scare into our neighbor's yappy dog (Thunder's a big guy).

I don't always have kind thoughts.  This is why animals are superior, in some ways:  They don't pretend.

Thunder joined us  two weeks ago, a 4-year-old stray from the local shelter.  He chose us, and his name happened, but a relevant reference comes from a Peter, Paul and Mary song, Day is Done.

...is it the thunder in the distance you fear

will it help if I stay very near.

.....

all will be well when the day is done.

Rich's arm is weakening.  Sutent is doing nasty things.  He is waiting for results from latest MRI.

We're not afraid of thunder.

I am afraid when the day is done.

Candace

waiting

First, we wait for the train.  Cancelled.  It's six degrees and we're getting frozen.  Back to our home-away-from-home to pack up some bread and cheese.  We won't have time for lunch, if the train comes.

Return to train station.  It's now after twelve.  Rich's appointment at MSK is at 1:30, but the earliest we can now arrive is 2:30.  He calls.  It's okay, they will see us whenever we arrive.

Announcement.  "Train 62 will be arriving 19 minutes late."  Another announcement, then another, each pushing back the time.  Others leave.  Fifty minutes late, the train arrives.  

I need the bathroom.  The door is stuck.  I finally flag the conductor.  His key gets stuck, too.  Finally, door opens, and I'm careful not to close it.  

But from here on, the train is express.  We eat our batarde, our cheddar cheese, and drink our water.

We arrive by three.  I phone a friend and say our planned meeting that afternoon is off.  Maybe next visit.

We watch the others waiting with us, and talk to some.  She's on her sixth version of chemotherapy.  He is trying to rest on the sofa while his wife and mother and three young sons share a pizza.

Looks good, Rich and I agree.  We're hungry.  We drink the waiting room's coffee and eat its pretzels.

Good news.  This is what matters.  Almost surely not neurological, we are assured.  Rich's leg pains may be sign of blood clot, so will have scan this week to rule out.  Otherwise, just another body ache.

Maybe. 

We buy two slices of pizza and eat on the train.

By nine we're "home," in front of a log-filled fireplace, drinking beer, and snow is falling.

That night, we sleep deeply.  A good day.

Candace

six word memoir

Perhaps you've seen them.  Six word memoirs, written by the famous and not.  I've reviewed some, and the majority could be classified as "bittersweet."  Not quite "life sucks," and not "oh, what a joy!"

Last night I thought about this, instead of sleeping. Rich is on a downward slope this week (it's snowing as I write, so please forgive the ski imagery) and this wakes me up. Maybe it's a cold he can't shake that's draining him, or maybe the new pain in his calf is the sign we haven't been waiting for.

The memoir title that emerged:  "Eat. Sleep. Wake Up.  Not Now."

Another trip to NYC in two days.  Rich says he hopes he can walk.  The world is shrinking.

Another memoir title:  "I Lied.  Chordoma: Not a Dance."

Candace

calendars

To know something about the life of others, look at their calendars.  I'm not speaking about content; the calendar is sufficient.  

Myself as example.  Growing up, all the calendars in our apartment were of the free religious genre, supplied by a funeral home (in truth, what better reminder could there be of the preciousness of each day?)  

Over the years, the themes of my calendars have been various religions and feminist and humorous.

But this year, none of them would satisfy.  I am weary of observing a particular year and numerous holidays that only remind me of what I don't believe.

So I found a blank calendar.  Really blank.  In its grid I can fill in my own days, dates, year, holidays.  If I wish, I can ignore weeks and months.  

How it's working:  Each week, as I fill in the days and date (I haven't been able to skip any so far, which says a lot), I must think:  What is my rhythm?  What is important?  Of what am I aware?

I haven't yet renamed the days or months, or filled in my own holy days.  

But this I know:  I am free -- not the calendar.

Candace

not good news

So it wasn't a bagel.  The news from our trip to MSK is this:  Deeper growth of tumor in spine.  This may, or may not, explain Rich's increased arm pains.  Advice from the neurosurgeon is to keep on with Sutent until pain increases or migrates elsewhere.  This presents Rich with the choice of hypochondria or awareness when transcendence would be preferred.

Candace

it's a bagel

Good news:  The latest MRI shows no growth in Rich's tumor.  In fact, the local radiologist hints in his report that this may be scar tissue, it doesn't seem to be acting like a tumor...which confirms my suspicions.

It is a bagel, coated with cream cheese and muenster, gone awry.  The cure?  A homeopathic application of mini-bagels, lightly coated with butter or cream cheese.

Could it thus be possible that Bagels are Evil?

If so, soon we shall find a few believers, then it will be proclaimed from pulpits, and soon politicians will compete with their bona fides on who is tougher against bagels, and accuse their opponents of waffling (another good breakfast food):  "You ate bagels in college!"

And their opponents will waffle back:  "Well, we chewed, but we didn't swallow.  And of course we shouldn't allow our enemies to acquire bagels for their own evil purposes."

Have an imaginative week --- but don't believe anything you think,

Candace

zen garden

I have been playing with the thought of creating a small Zen garden, either outdoors or in our home.  Such gardens are Buddhist in origin, and 1,000-plus-years-old.  As many reading this probably know, in appearance they're simple, with minimal ingredients:  Rocks, sand, a few green plants, perhaps a stone lantern or statue.

The point of such gardens is not "decorative," but about going to the contemplative heart of our existence, expressed in the creation of the garden, in its maintenance, and in its quiet "being with."

So I was surprised when scanning the Web to find that you can find instructions to build a Zen garden at the big box stores, or order desk top models to relieve "executive stress" (add a fisherman for only $3 more!)

First reaction:  "Abomination!"

Second reaction:  "Why not?"

Most of us, after all, are not Buddhist monks or professional gardeners, but we want a taste of the beyond and of beauty, so why not play with sand and rocks?  And invite a fisherman, too.

Happy gardening,

Candace