Lavish gifts from beyond the grave.
Went in for chemo today. It was hard to make myself go--so reluctant even though intellectually I realize it is keeping me around longer.
I'm feeling sick, but took pain pills that make me happy and chatty. I've been reading this horror novel that is all blood and death. How tiresome. I like scary movies and books--but I need some humor thrown in there--crazy, absurd humor. That is how we face the darkness, isn't it? With laughter.
I remember one night my step-mother came into town to visit me and we drove out to a store late at night. They were doing major roadwork on the interstate and it was late and rainy and I swear I thought at several points we were going to die--but somewhere in this sequence we both got tickled. I laughed so hard I was crying and I honestly cannot remember ever feeling so amused and at the same time authentically scared for my life.
I decided then that it would be a great way to go. Say you're in that airplane that takes a nosedive--rather than screaming or crying--if you can pull out any shred of humor to cling to--go down laughing.
I think of the way I lived my life when I was healthy, try to imagine where I'd be if the cancer hadn't consumed me. I think of home. I was on the phone with my step-mom earlier tonight for an hour and a half. I adore that woman. When I was younger and in the angst of puberty we'd drive around our small town in a crummy brown car with the windows rolled down--twilight, the sweet gentle air of summer intoxicating us. We'd drive through nice neighborhoods and peek into houses with open windows and talk. That's home for me.
Or sitting down to a meal my friend Misty has made (she is the best cook ever), or laying down in her soft, pale arms--burying my head in her neck and talking about anything and everything or getting silly and laughing until tears stream. Those places are home for me--not a spot, not a location, but a person and a memory locked in fading moments, taken out like a favorite pair of pajamas.
Reasons to fight for my life. I don't want the people I love to hurt if I die. I don't want my step-mom to feel alone, like there's no one to understand her anymore. I don't want Misty to cry. The last time she called and I really spoke with her honestly, she started crying. She was worried about my feelings of guilt. I felt just awful, making her cry.
If I could do anything in death, it would be to appear and to comfort--reassure--I'd want to bring a little magic and mystery and beauty into the equation. Death is not a black pit of no return and I am not destroyed into nothingness. That's what I'd want them to know and further--to believe. I'd want to bring them lavish gifts from beyond the grave.
Have any of you out there who've lost loved ones had anything like that happen?
I'm feeling sick, but took pain pills that make me happy and chatty. I've been reading this horror novel that is all blood and death. How tiresome. I like scary movies and books--but I need some humor thrown in there--crazy, absurd humor. That is how we face the darkness, isn't it? With laughter.
I remember one night my step-mother came into town to visit me and we drove out to a store late at night. They were doing major roadwork on the interstate and it was late and rainy and I swear I thought at several points we were going to die--but somewhere in this sequence we both got tickled. I laughed so hard I was crying and I honestly cannot remember ever feeling so amused and at the same time authentically scared for my life.
I decided then that it would be a great way to go. Say you're in that airplane that takes a nosedive--rather than screaming or crying--if you can pull out any shred of humor to cling to--go down laughing.
I think of the way I lived my life when I was healthy, try to imagine where I'd be if the cancer hadn't consumed me. I think of home. I was on the phone with my step-mom earlier tonight for an hour and a half. I adore that woman. When I was younger and in the angst of puberty we'd drive around our small town in a crummy brown car with the windows rolled down--twilight, the sweet gentle air of summer intoxicating us. We'd drive through nice neighborhoods and peek into houses with open windows and talk. That's home for me.
Or sitting down to a meal my friend Misty has made (she is the best cook ever), or laying down in her soft, pale arms--burying my head in her neck and talking about anything and everything or getting silly and laughing until tears stream. Those places are home for me--not a spot, not a location, but a person and a memory locked in fading moments, taken out like a favorite pair of pajamas.
Reasons to fight for my life. I don't want the people I love to hurt if I die. I don't want my step-mom to feel alone, like there's no one to understand her anymore. I don't want Misty to cry. The last time she called and I really spoke with her honestly, she started crying. She was worried about my feelings of guilt. I felt just awful, making her cry.
If I could do anything in death, it would be to appear and to comfort--reassure--I'd want to bring a little magic and mystery and beauty into the equation. Death is not a black pit of no return and I am not destroyed into nothingness. That's what I'd want them to know and further--to believe. I'd want to bring them lavish gifts from beyond the grave.
Have any of you out there who've lost loved ones had anything like that happen?