Why is it that I post the least when I am also doing the least? Is lethargy a deep soul-sucking sinkhole? Do I simply have nothing to say?
Long ago, when George was still alive, he would occasionally see me quietly lost in thought and ask what was on my mind. Often I would reply "Oh, nothing." and his response was invariably, "I don't believe that for a second." He was correct, but I often wasn't ready to share, or it seemed irrelevant somehow. Is that where I am now? My mind has not particularly been at rest, but my body, and my energy, oh my, they have been mired deeply in the mud. Don't mind my ruminations then, rough as they are, at the moment they are all I have.
Admittedly, it hasn't been all bad. I went up to Hancock county to see a friend's new farm. There was fabulous food and fellowship, and an overnight as well, my first trip away from home since chemo started. I had to take a nap and retire early, explored less than others, communed less as well. But there was something about stirring, half awake, hearing the murmur of voices late in the night, that was soothing -- such a change from over a year in an empty house, alone. It was good for my soul.
I posted this photo on Instagram. It seems I have been remiss, even there. Early morning fog on the river. This morning scene, and the entire visit in its own way, brought up bittersweet memories. The morning fog on the Hudson as the nights cooled. The many trips George and I would make on weekends, hiking and wandering in the Takanics, the Berkshires, the Green Mountains. These are all a part of the Appalachian chain, and there is some similarity in the sense of place to me. This is one of the things that made me feel more comfortable as I moved here from New York. For whatever reason, I always preferred these various segments of the Appalachian chain to the Adirondacks and Catskills, which are separate ranges. These places always felt like home, even though I certainly was not "from" that place. We would spend many a weekend wandering and exploring. George would talk of retiring to Vermont, either in a small town, or on a small farm, but only if it had a flat driveway. He was tired of plowing our steep hill. He wanted to be away from people. I would agree, but only if we could go to New York or Boston, or somewhere three or four weekends a year for live music. At that point I didn't know George would never voluntarily retire. Sitting on that front porch, looking at that fog, made me think not so much of Tennessee, where I was, but of the Berkshires and southern Vermont, of dreams and longings.
I don't actually know if I was yearning for something real or something imagined. This could have all been a whisper of discontent, rising out of my general dissatisfaction with life at the moment. Chemo is not fun. My first infusion of paclitaxel, or Taxol, was a bit of a shock, despite having being reassured that most people found it easier. It is possible that my worst days on Taxol are not as severe as my worst days on doxorubicin, but the truth is that, aside from the day after treatment there seemed to be no best days. I don't know if that is because of the Taxol or if it is because I experienced some complications and the second infusion was delayed a week, until tomorrow. Today I feel better than I have since June (the last time I missed an infusion due to health issues), but I am still tired and short of breath, and have a few remnants of peripheral neuropathy. Six more weeks.
The other news, which is sad news indeed, concerns this little guy.
Moises went outside last Tuesday, as is his way, and for whatever reason, either initial willfulness or a dreadful accident or encounter, he never returned. People keep telling me he might yet show up, and he might, but it seems past the point where one might hold one's breath. He is generally not one to wander far. I knew when he decided, at age 10, that he was going to become an outside cat, that this day might happen. That was four years ago, and I was probably more upset about the possibility at that time than I am now. I know he was pissed at me. I went away for an overnight. I took him to the vet. Moises would tell me he would rather go die in a noble battle or in the woods than go to the god-damned vet. Fourteen and a curmudgeon. Nonetheless I miss him. I still hopefully look out the doors, step-outside, call his name.
It has been a hard year. Strange that, only a year since I broke my nose, found out I had a heart issue. I lost Tikka last August. Poncho. Cancer. Moises. It feels like a lifetime. Life is not really about avoiding pain or loss; they are inevitable and we see that constantly in the cycle of the seasons around us. As much as we hope we can escape, it is impossible. It is not the avoidance of pain that makes us who we are, but the experience itself, the diving into it, the refining, much as raw gold is smelted and refined into something beautiful. That doesn't mean that the dive itself is fun, and that we don't sometimes cramp up and think we will never make it through. I will make it through. This is only a moment.
Who will I be when I reemerge?
