I wonder when I travel: did the highway just get longer? I grew up watching the Twilight Zone, so I know there's precedence implanted in my psyche for such inexplicability
As I experience everything as a journey (that, a habit I picked up from reading Anne Sexton), I'm looking for mile markers to done with cancer. I know it's early, but I do best when I can say that 300 miles is, at my current rate of unchanging speed, x hours of driving. It helps me not eat trashy burgers when I travel, it minimizes peeing, it encourages prior planning for good snacks in the car. Note that I have never worn a diaper, or brought a pee can, or pulled a crazy Houston astronaut trying to go kill an ex-boyfriend in Florida.
My highway did a TZ this evening with my first delivery of Home Health care supplies--new tube parts, 2 weeks of formula, new infusion tubes, and the dreaded patient education. They are admirably fast--this was set up this morning and it arrived this evening. So, before I make any complaint, let's all admire a moment of efficiency, courtesy of the system.
And I'm not going to moan so much as note that it seems the mile marker to done flipped upward as the hand truck passed the stoop...I mean, Home Health. Me. Who, six months ago, would pick us out as partners? Not me. No one I know. I was routinely doing hundreds of push ups and sit ups, and working with dumb bells, and pull ups--all in that well known 52 year old man groove of being hot enough for love, at 52.
(before you laugh remember: you live in this youth obsessed culture and you'll go through the same thing!)
There's been a fire sale on unproven ideas in the mass consumer health market, and we all know it. Creams called Regenerist. Ads that claim that masque A or serum B can "change your DNA" (wouldn't the dinosaurs have loved some of that?). The idea that licking or sticking testosterone into a man is the primo way to extend life, erections, and the pursuit of male irresponsibility. The tendency to covet a multi-vitamin more than a balanced diet. The certainty that whatever ailment exists there is secret native knowledge to overcome it, and we've simply lost the correct combination and dosage of sage/black thistle/horny goat weed/gingko/ fish oil/ goldenrod/raw honey/ and so forth, to cure anything.
And, while I don't do hippy cure alls as a matter of first course, I've been affected, hopeful even, that those assertions are correct.
So the entry of boxes of Nestle's formula, "Nutren" (possibly the name of the Viking Goddess of Good Eating), set my destination instantly further back on the asphalt I'm speeding to done with ths shit.
I've quietly suspected a year until I'm able to eat, somewhat normally. Inclusive of the chemo and radiation to follow this surgery, inclusive of the healing of the reconstructed muscle that will pass for a tongue, inclusive of the training to do so without drooling. March 2014. Girl Scout cookies and Rib Eye sandwiches for all!
Grousy doctor of course brought up the "may never eat normally again" scenario.And I'm not ignoring it. I just have my head in a course on miracles, brought forth by a universe motivated with fairness toward the heavy ticket I've just paid for speeding through a metaphorical landscape.
This follows the idea that astrological signs laboring under the influence of Saturn receive no shortcuts and learn, maximally, the lessons life will teach both good and bad. Saturn entered my sign of Scorpio last October and by November, this story had commenced. So, being a believer to the extent that I know Saturn entered Scorpio, Ladies and Gentlemen I present Cancer: A Love Story.
There will be no hurrying for the next two years, according to Saturn. One will move as the world moves and as the mind apprehends. So instead of hurrying off to finish, stay where you are and dance.
The mad waltz done to the way they ring the bells in Bedlam.
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