(Note: for some reason, typing this on my Ipad, I reached a point where the page refused to advance as I typed, so I couldn't see what I was typing, which is not usually a good way to go about this--thus, part I and part II)
One problem I have right now is that I have time to think, and that is not always good. And thinkers are, after all, not always doers. So I've been attempting to blend the two approaches--to not go off half-cocked as doers often do, and not refuse to cock the gun of doing, as thinkers are want to act.
But how do you know you change your perspective and your actions when you're isolated at home? Good question--and my answer is to look to the small things and integrate them as I can.
I've semi-resolved to stop being such a whiney bitch about eating--allow me to assure you I can't quite give it all up; Scott sent me a message yesterday from lunch at Super Duper Burger in San Francisco and I wanted to die. In case you don't know Super Duper Burger is the best damn burger in the world, and I would do vile things in order to have one. That, I will always whine about.
I know I'll be back to eating--it just won't be now which is what I want. Now, now, now--the hallmark of the supercilious special. The idea that waiting and patience are not fit for those who sneering take on modern life renders them too damn special to live it as the rest of us do. You know them. They board airlines out of turn, they push forward to deplane before any other row--no matter where they sit. They sigh loudly when forced to spend 30 seconds in a 10 items or fewer line. Those people.
Theoretically, the back hand luck that I and the Irish should be famous for may be our saving grace from this type of life and attitude, from this refusal to be part of the world, and of the world, and not above it. I'd like to think that I can convert my close encounters with the rough reality of bad health and poor outcomes to a fuller expression of gratitude for just that type of luck.
I decided to express my gratitude this afternoon when I walked to the store and bought dinner to make for Charles, who is stuck in Catholic Holy Week hell, with many hours of music to plan, perform and supervise.
I expressed my gratitude by taking two of the truffles Scott brought back from Switzerland for me--beautiful, expressively chocolate truffles that I've pouted about not eating--and making the most expensive glass of chocolate milk that has ever graced a feeding tube. I find that I can make out the flavor of things I feed into the tube in the back of my throat--I can sense the vapor I guess--and this chocolate--even second hand--is madly good. Thank you my very dear Scott! Let me not bitch that gift horse further.
To be clear, cancer is a buzzkill. I felt far happier when I was thoughtlessly popping M&Ms in my mouth, right? I was a better person when, without knowing what this experience was like, I told my mother that anyone who lived long enough was sure to encounter cancer--I mean, that sort of dry sympathy is just what she needed wasn't it? It was good enough of me to say fuck that the last time I didn't win the lottery--isn't that normal?
Yes, all quite normal, I'm sure. Which is why I, and my perhaps my Irish friends, should understand just how lucky we really are.
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