Geese and Gratitude

Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.

                    Mary Oliver, "Wild Geese"

It snowed today. And got dark at 4:30. It will get darker for longer each day until December 21, Winter Solstice. I actually love late autumn—the grackles, winter's voice clacking in the trees, that brace of frigid air, the grey skies and foreboding of early-darkening days mixed with hope, the anticipation of light's return. November strips the last of the foliage off, and there they are—the squirrels' nests and mistletoe, the deer in the wood, the formerly hidden bungalow at the end of the lane, the orange berries on tough green bittersweet vines, the red on waxy holly. Yes, darkness, but also, revelation, evergreen, and bright spots of color. The season's bleak beauty has an archetypal narrative arc that resonates pretty deeply with my own temperament.

While I was walking through the neighborhood yesterday, I saw someone had painted the entire text of Mary Oliver's poem "Wild Geese" on a piece of wood and propped it up in their front yard for all to read and love. It's one of the best poems ever, and you can read it here if you don't already know it. I don't know who lives in this house, but I wanted to go up to this neighbor's front door and knock, and when they came out, I would have bear-hugged them and kissed them on the mouth, and said "Yes! Yes! Thank you for reminding me how beautiful this world can be, full of poetry and ordinary glories!" For obvious pandemicky and politeness reasons, I did not, but the yard poem is one of the things for which I am incredibly grateful this month.

This November has been blurry, no—I've been unfocused, vaguely fretful, an emotional mish-mosh of gratitude and wistfulness, and, yesterday, I was overcome with a kind of keening nostalgia brought on by over-exposure to Christmas lights in cozy windows during a walkabout on a cloudy day. Each day I set an intention (put up some damn decorations, write that letter, respond to so-and-so's email, finish editing that chapter, write those portfolio comments) and fail to follow it. I set another the next day and get halfway. My actions seem to trail off into broken sentences and half-formed thoughts. 

What the heck is wrong? 

Nothing.

It's been a year since I finished four rounds of infusion chemo and more brain radiation than I care to consider, and I still take oral chemo every day. Metastatic cancer patients are always waiting for that other shoe to fall, so nothing new there. I've been well through all of it, more or less, in this overall shitty year for everything else besides my body, with my disease remaining stable. Still, I'm probably about as depressed as the next person because of the pandemic. I admit that I got a little too obsessed with the election, but that's over now, and I've more or less detached from things political (except for the Georgia runoff) because they make me too crazy.

I'm okay. I have scans next week. I remain hopeful. So there it is, melancholy for no reason. 

Things I neglected this past month:

• Lung Cancer Awareness Month (I did a little lung cancer fundraiser in October, so I didn't think I should ask people for money again, times are tough, etc., and I was so sick of social media after the election that I just couldn't...I don't know...make the ask, again)
• Correspondence (email, letters, texts, thank you notes, etc., I promise I am not ignoring you; I'm just...ignoring everyone.)
• Diet (not gonna bore you with the details...just...ya know...way.too.heavy, thanks lorlatinib)
• Work (said yes to every likely project while still not finishing ones already in line)
• Fill in the blank (pretty sure I've left lots of things off the list, but you can let me know)

Good things that happened in November:

• Thanksgiving (a favorite holiday)
• Mom's birthday
• I finished editing a memoir by my friend Seth Walker, which is available for pre-order here:Your Van Is On Fire
• I've made progress editing another book on a really interesting and surprising aspect of Civil War history written by a gentlemen here in Middle Tennessee, and which I hope will be published in the coming year.
• I set up my fundraising page for the ROS1ders, to collect donations for research projects we have a direct hand in creating. I'd love for you to check it out and give us some $$$$ for research.
• I got to be featured in a video about lung cancer for a series that should run on WebMD in January.
• I put up some Christmas lights yesterday and got an Advent reader in the mail. John got me a little house-plant pine (Norfolk Island Pine) to decorate (we don't go in for cutting down live trees), and some poinsettias for the living room. So yay for summoning holiday spirit even though we're all so fucking depressed.

December Hopes:

• Raise more money for lung cancer research
• Good scans, stable disease (NED)
• Finish all editing projects for the year
• Finish all portfolio assessment work for the year
• Begin putting a poetry collection together
• Make some art
• Celebrate Hanukkah-Solstice-Christmas-Kwanzaa-NewYear's with joy and hope
• Keep showing up when I remember where I'm supposed to be

 

On Consequences and Cancer

This week, I finally got to take a genuinely deep breath, one I've been holding for four years. And not a day too soon. Tomorrow, November 9, is the third anniversary of my metastatic lung cancer diagnosis. That's right; one year after our last presidential election, the outcome of which I thought was one of the worst things that had ever happened, I got even worse news. I—a non-smoking, kale-eating, yoga-practicing, peace-loving, 54-year-old healthy woman—had (and still have) late stage lung cancer. There are things worse than President #45.

Today, I am breathing more easily both literally and figuratively. Thanks to excellent care and cutting- edge treatment, my most recent scans show that the very rare form of lung cancer I have is currently stable. And thanks to what I consider to be a hopeful election, I am less fearful about my ability to continue to access great health care here in America.

Americans go to the polls in their own self-interest. When they step into the voting booth, they take with them their parents and grandparents, along with their kids. They take their work, their health, their schooling. They vote with their gender, their race, their age. They bring their religion and/or other ideologies that they probably inherited from their parents. They take their wallets and houses and communities. They take whatever priorities they have and vote for the people they think will best address them.

I voted for myself. I voted for my cancer. So I couldn't vote for the candidate who scoffs at science and scientists, who has allowed a pandemic to rage, unabated, and who, for four years, promised "beautiful" health care reform that never showed, and instead, gutted the plan we already had. I couldn't support an administration that cut funding to important health care institutions and agencies, like the National Cancer Institute. Instead, I voted for a candidate who supports universal access to affordable health care, and who, before he ran for office, ran a cancer foundation to honor his son who died of brain cancer, a candidate who understands that the answers to solving our greatest public health crises are found in science and reason, not hot and paranoid politics.

I am a person of faith who tries, every day, with varying degrees of success, to be compassionate. So I voted for the candidate who went to Mass and then prayed at the graves of his dead children and wife on election day. I didn't vote for the guy who held a Bible upside down for a photo op in a churchyard where resting protesters were teargassed and driven violently away.

I am a person of small means, economically speaking. I voted for the candidate who grew up in a working class community and understands that struggle, not for the one born with the silver spoon.

I have friends and family members of all races. One of my closest friends is blind. I have so many friends in the LGBTQ+ community, and family members who are trans and gay. I have friends and former students who are Dreamers. I come from a family of immigrants. I couldn't vote for the candidate who denies the vulnerable protection and justice, who calls them criminals and thugs.

I am a writer and poet. I couldn't vote for the candidate who doesn't read, who doesn't love poetry and art and good music, who butchers language with hateful rhetoric. And who doesn't like dogs. So I voted for the guy who quotes Seamus Heaney, who has two big dogs, and who married an English teacher who isn't, thank goodness, a supermodel.

Elections have consequences. I like my chances with this guy.