I try to remember my old life -- with it's plethora of pleasant diversions -- with fondness but without attachment. If I look back with longing, then my current life begins to feel too hard. I want to appreciate what I had, and to appreciate what I have. I know of no other way to pass evenly and peacefully through my days.
There was always the over-arching pleasure of Eric, and Eric's company. That was the most important thing, and that's still here... thank goodness.
But the happy diversions... the concerts, the plays, the dinner parties, the weekends away.... those days are gone. Our full calendar is gone.
Now we have one weekend a month without chemotherapy. There's one weekend a month with the possibility that I won't feel bad (although sometimes I do feel bad).
We ask ourselves how we should spend this time. Resting, probably. Or we could have a few friends over. That would be nice.
I think... well... let's be serious about this. Will I be alive for twelve months? Assuming that I feel terrible the last two months of my existence (letting myself off easy), how many of the ten remaining potentially not-too-icky-feeling weekends of my life should I spend... say... doing laundry? Comforting a friend in need? Worrying about the work week ahead?
There's no real answer. Just asking the question.
So, while the tyrannically positive are quick to tell me that I can still do some things that I want to do, even if I can't do everything that I want to do... all I have to say is pfffffffffffffffffffffft.
Yes, I know. I can do some things I want to do.
In the past I would have done all of them:
1. Taking a trip to the Haunted Cornfield Maze at Ardenwood. It's always fun to go traipsing around in the dark, solving the puzzle & being startled by enthusiastic teenagers. Given my energy level and neuropathy it's probably not a good idea.
2. Going to see the Joseph Cornell and especially the Olafur Eliasson exhibits at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. They're right up my alley, and Eric and I could make a day of it, with a trip to the museum and lunch in the city. Again: energy and neuropathy.
3. Enjoying a special wine dinner with friends at Indigo in San Francisco. The prix fixe menu looks good, and after 8:00 PM they host special food and wine pairings, with the selection of wines "freely poured". What could be more fun than our friends and good food and good wine? Unfortunately, having multiple large liver tumors and the burden of chemotherapy makes wine dinners a bit sketchy.
4. Tickets are now available for the City Arts and Lectures series. I could go see Billy Collins (a personal favorite and former U.S. Poet Laureate, who I've been lucky enough to see several times), or I could spend an Evening with Amy Sedaris, or I could see Karen Armstrong or Bernhard Schlink. Unfortunately, a hot, uncomfortable, theater on a weeknight just won't work for me anymore.
5. Taking another weekend intensive class at the Institute of Mosaic Art -- possibly something along the lines of lamp making with clear and opaque glass. I forgot about my numb, blistered, fingers.
I dunno...
Maybe it would be better to never forget my limitations. It's hard to awaken, again & again, to the perennial refrain of "that's a no-go, Miss Inspirational Pink". Even if I can do some things, I can't do most things... not in the way I'd like. And I likely won't do them at all.
Or I will. And then people will tell me what an inspiration I am. I had someone tell me once that I had more fun while having cancer than she had without cancer. I understood that what she said was true. I didn't consider it a compliment, though. As far as I'm concerned, she was still gloating.
On the up side: I don't feel good enough to be bored, and Eric is still a delight. (I've said that before, as well, and I'm not planning on stopping).
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