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Posts Tagged ‘hubris’

If you have been a reader here for a while, this piece may not be particularly different or surprising; but maybe somewhat so. In any case, I am not writing to panic you or make you think I am not going to come out on the other side of my multiple myeloma treatment with anything but my life intact. I expect a full remission. On the other hand, I try not to project too much about particulars at this time. I don’t expect to know a lot of things, and I am learning not to be too cocky any more. I was really cocky, thinking I’d never get cancer: that will never be me. It had no place in my vision for myself or my life force. Now I won’t show such hubris as to project ages and dates because I think they will not have the same meaning to me that they used to. Now I don’t get too far ahead of myself. This is a piece about just what it is. If if helps, think of it as fantasy.

Also:

If you are going to comment, please do not put forth your own beliefs about how I am doing or whether I am doing the right or wrong thing. That is not what this writing is about. You may send your love and light and wholeness, your chi, your prana, your aligned and lit-up chakra energy. I know you are sending images and colors and calm and I love it all. I am filled with love for you and from you. You may pray to Jesus for me, to God, to Buddha, to a tiny pea seed hiding in the darkness, waiting for spring. You may bless me and love me. But I do not want your judgment, for that belongs to you alone.

♥ ♥ ♥

I lie on the table, looking out the window into winter. I am weak. The room is warm, too warm, making me give in further to my weakness. The effort to shift my bones is too much so I don’t move. I sink. To smile at the male cardinal cracking seeds in his beak is too much. I feel Victorian and gauzy. I am the weight of a square of gauze. If I had to wear anything but a silk gown next to my skin, I would surely break into pieces.

I want to fade away, but I would fade into misery. Do they talk about the pain? The exhaustion of hauling around a shell, the ghost of my formerly strong body. When was the last time I could take a deep breath without it getting caught at the sides of my ribs? When didn’t I gasp for air to come in or to wince in slight pain when it went out?

Now I know that lo these 9 months (and then some!) I was never being dramatic. I never had a low pain threshold. Au contraire. I wish I had listened with a non-judgmental ear to that pain. I never thought of myself as stoic, I thought I was whining. I thought my pain was a bore to those around me. I popped ibuprofen like it was candy. Ibuprofen and ice, sometimes dancing or vigorous hiking would give relief. So it must not have been that bad.

I birthed two babies, hard labors, at home. Especially my first birth was long and hard—21 hours of active labor on top of 2 days of early labor and I started out with a flu which had left me sleep-deprived and dehydrated. Baby had the cord wrapped around her body 4 times and was born with a compound presentation (her tiny perfect arm wedged up against her head). I did that without pain medication. Still I’ve thought of myself as weak in the face of pain.

Yet here I am and here I have lived for over 9 months, painful fractures throughout my bones.

Time is not time. Time is weariness is pain is too much. Time has to end now. Time is too much for me to bear. How can I stay alive through this? What if I get worse tomorrow? Surely I don’t have the reserves of strength this will take. Surely I need a pillow to be carried on, a sedan chair, does no one see this? Why aren’t the hospitals equipped with silken pillows and nursemaids who will bathe and oil and dress me. They have to carry my arms, move my fingers for me, lift water to my mouth. I am too weak to manage my own body. I am fading but no one sees.

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The naked skier, he gets me a lot of hits. Other photos of other naked skiers are out there, he was just the cheesiest one. Not like the airborne happy man with his happy penis and happy balls flying happily in the happy bright sunshine and happy abundant snow.

I can’t ski, or at least I only tried once and didn’t like it. Even just on the Bunny Hill. Funny me.

As I mentioned in my last post, it never snows any more anyway. The last big snow was in October 2011, the one that broke all sorts of records and broke all of the oaks and maples to bits.

I can’t listen to the news too much. It’s too awful. My life is as challenging as it needs to be without it. Yet one lives in the world and enjoys the car radio. One likes to read a few headlines or cannot avoid them at all.

I was involved in a Facebook thread about guns last week. In the 6 days since, each day, there has been a tragic shooting in our country. These were apparently not RESPONSIBLE GUN OWNERS who needed to kill a rabid raccoon running around their chicken house or who needed to euthanize a sick farm animal (as was explained to me in the comment thread). Not people intelligently and legitimately defending themselves against an aggressor (how often do we read of the gun owner who had to defend himself against an intruder?). How about the guy who killed his own kid, “accidentally?” Are hubris and stupidity accidents?

Here is what one of the people, on the aforementioned FB thread, had to say at one point:

Kids, when taught about guns and how to use them and respect them, never have accidents.
(DIRECT QUOTE, COPIED AND PASTED)

Like the EIGHT-YEAR OLD BOY at the gun show in Massachusetts in 2008. Or this 12-year old boy, one of the gun “events” I came across in the delightful headlines on my computer this week.

Idiocy, ignorance, and hubris are not accidents; they simply come along with being human.

In the meantime, here is the Happy Skier.

He makes a big X with his body which I sort of love. I think if I were a man, I might not mind this too much. If this were me skiing, I’d have my black skirt on, the only article of clothing into which I comfortably fit in my current zaftig (overweight, anemic) state. I wouldn’t wear anything underneath and the skirt could just fly up in the air like a penis and a pair of balls. My boobs would probably hit me in the face, not like the skinny naked female skiers one finds photos of on google images.

A girl can dream.

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