A few thoughts on this well known poem ...

This poem is plastered on the wall of every single oncology office waiting room, not to mention chemo & blood letting rooms. It predominantly overlays a picture of a solitary butterfly, usually a Monarch. The image then seduces one down the yellow brick road marvelling at the majesty of natures ability to transform. Metamorphisis.





Cancer is so limited
It cannot cripple love
It cannot shatter hope
It cannot corrode faith
It cannot destroy peace
It cannot kill friendship
It cannot suppress memories
It cannot silence courage
It cannot invade the soul
It cannot steal eternal life
It cannot conquer the spirit.



What does the Peanut Gallery have to say about this?

BULLSHIT!

Over time, it can do each & every single one of those things. It is insidious, persistant.

It is the cellular "BORG".

It studies, consumes its victims. It becomes a total parasite, a very possesive mistress. It makes you shiver when it is a hot, humid tropical day. It makes you crave the sugars upon which it blossoms.

You should have guessed. Vic's latest scans are not good. The chemo may have slowed things down but tumors are lighting up throughout his chest area like the proverbial Channuka tree (bite me for that!). Wow, that lymphatic system is effective.

Here, someone, please. Take a cricket paddle & whack me across the other side of my head.

I need something to balance out my level of disappointment.

Perhaps a hearty scream & some meditation may hit the spot.

Or some Xanax & .25mg melatonin ...

Good night ...
Perchance to dream ...

on optical illusions ...

Aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

How Vic spent his summer

Once every 21 days, down to VA hospital in West Palm Beach, 8th floor.

 

What makes for a cancer survivor?

 

D-E-T-E-R-M-I-N-A-T-I-O-N

"She goes running for the shelter of her mother's little helper ...

G-d has a real sense of humor about Him-Her. I spent the best part of my adult like (20's on) being diagnosed with some form of depression, bipolar, clinical ... all this came with a little piece of white paper upon which was scribbled the likes of lithium, valium, ativan, elavil, etraphon, restoril, halcyon... warm memories of falling asleep with the piece of very dry rye toast,
between my clenched teeth & the unsuspecting inside of a very dry mouth. I clearly remember the voice of my starter husband, his lips close to my ear:

"Karen, chew, chew very slowly. VERY slowly" and like a cow I deliberately masticated it into an unstoppable descent, buoyed along by the glass of milk the wasband kindly offered through a straw.

 

None of it really worked. Bandaids of chemical separation. A soft focused curtain of unclarity.

Years, then decades past. I was appropriately hatched, matched & dispatched (Brit classifieds).

3am risings became the norm. A bit more weight than fair considering the extra long walk we took after tapas gigantico. A touch more sensativity. Lethargic fatigue. Volcanic hot flashes. Artic chill down.

Not good.

Enter Estrogen.

Little did I know that my life would change from boo hoo hoo to ooh, la, la within 10 days.

All I ever needed was a schmear of estrogen every day & I just wanted to bake cookies and whistle a happy tune.

"What me worry?" could have been my motto.

A thousand thanks to Allah everynight for the magical cream which makes me feel happy, happy HAPPY.

G-d heards. Started sending down some side effects. And no, not the nice one.

Wah!

Mean Dr. Lhassie has taken away my nightly smear of bio identical euphoria in a syringe.

I want it back! I love it! It raises my happy!

In the mean time, per Howie Lewis & the News: "I want a new drug, one that just won't quit."

The bow released the arrow ...

 

From the words of Gibran ...

"Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable".




And from the heart of a Mother ...

The reason that cliches are so, well, cliche is because they just work. Yesterday one era of our family story just slipped into the beginning of a new chapter.

We took Corey to college. It was only 18 short years & 2 weeks ago that he was born.

Yesterday, we watched him walk off into his future amidst a little Tampa drizzle.

Now there are 4 of us at home. A whole new dynamic. A whole new chapter in all our lives.

I remember all those years ago thinking on this day - the day he drove on his own, the day he dated, the day he fell in love - the one which totally suckered me in the gut was the thought of him leaving.

Even more years ago, I read the words of Khalil Gibran.

As we drove off, those words came flowing back to me. They resonated through me, soul to soul, enfolding me like a well seasoned shawl, affording great comfort & solace.

I am surprisingly happy & excited for Corey. It is time. His time.

What the bug?

 

This magnificent indigenous creature totally mezmermized me. The carapace screamed ancient Greek pottery. I looked at it from this angle and that. In my zeal for the best photo possible, backed into a small Prickly Pear - a small portent of a much more sinister cactus encounter to come.

I spent the best part of an hour desperately pulling at the tiny little puff balls of spicky misery.

All the while, the bug continued to sit in the morning sun, looking so fine ...