Cancer

If you're a friend and I haven't told you about this yet, my apologies. It's always been easier for me to write about my fears than to talk about them. And I'm a little loopy these days.

If you used to be a friend (or lover) and are just checking in on me, then I hope you're doing okay. I can sincerely say that I have no anger, no bitterness, no ill will in my heart for anyone I've known in this lifetime. And I can guarantee you that I still think about you, and wish that we were still friends.

Okay. Deep breath.

I was with both of my parents when they died. 

My mother died at the age of 83, primarily due to a series of strokes. As she neared the end of her life, she became untethered from reality. She'd insist that my sister, who had dedicated her life to caring for her, was trying to poison her. She had about a 90 second loop that she would repeat for the entirety of my visit. She didn't always know who I was. Sometimes she would come back to herself, and she'd say startling things. Once she told me that she felt like she was made of sand, and the ocean waves were washing her away. Once she asked me to get a gun and shoot her. When I told her that I couldn't do that, she said, "If you loved me you'd do it."

My father died at the age of 59. He had lung cancer. He struggled through chemotherapy, which put him into remission just long enough for us to hope that the nightmare was over. Then the cancer came back, and he died in a hospital bed, unconscious at the end.

I used to say that of the two ways to die, I'd rather go my father's way. Mostly because it would cause less pain to the people who loved me.

A week ago I was in a doctor's office. He was explaining to me that the small blur on the MRI he'd examined was probably cancer. He told me I had three choices: (1) wait 3 months and have another MRI to see if anything had changed; (2) have a biopsy; (3) have it cut out. I immediately rejected (1). I asked about (2). He said he could do that, but if it was cancer, they'd have to go back in and do the whole thing over again...and that would cause me a lot of physical distress. He also said that in his experience, (1) it looked like cancer and (2) the earlier it was attended to, the better my chances of recovery were.

So in less than two weeks I'll be having a piece of my left lung cut out. 

Yes, I have been talking to Jesus. To be honest, no more than I was before, which was every night. So at least no one can accuse me of hopping on that bandwagon.

I once said to a friend, "We all know that we're going to die, but none of us really believe it." 

I started to believe it a few years ago when I ended up in the ER with non-ischemic left bundle branch blockage. Which hurt like fucking hell, by the way, and still haunts me at least once a week...despite the eight medications I'm currently knocking back.

But since that doctor visit last week...I not only believe it, I know it. In my bones. If not from this, then something else in the not too distant future.

I'm only occasionally terrified, though. 67 years is not a bad run. I have three children and a grandchild that I'm nuts about. I have two sisters who love me and would do anything for me. I have a few beloved friends who are dear and true. I have read lots of good books. I've had some fabulous orgasms. 

And I think I've added at least a little bit of good to the world. I hope so, anyway.

News as it happens.