Okay…it’s been a tough few weeks.
I thought I had this cancer on the run and it turned out I didn’t. I got some bad news and it threw me. Threw me bad. Like a mean horse, it threw me and stomped me and there aren’t any rodeo clowns here.
I’ve spent the past few weeks trying to get on that horse and ride it out. Again. And there isn’t an 8 second rule here. It’s more like a 8 hour rule. I try to get through 8 hours. I try to work as if I’m not on cancer drugs. I try to work for 8 hours as if I’m not sick and tired and exhausted. I get through that 8 hours and then I set myself up to get through the next 8, and the 8 after that.
I try to sleep, eat, work and feel joy. Joy is why we live, isn’t it? Joy is my guardian angel. So I’ve spent the past weeks searching for sources of joy.
My source has shrunk down to small rivulets. Small doses of joy. You have to concentrate when you don’t have a river flowing past you. The river narrows to a small, incredibly clear stream. Only the tiniest, most lovely little nuances can slip through the clog, the blockage. Violets. An orange cat sleeping in the sun. A great book. A fine glass of wine. Sunshine. Misty rain. Ferries in a foggy morning. They don’t last. Joy doesn’t.
Short. Small. Reduced. No expectations.
Small doses. Life reduced to small. I’ll take it. And the intervening hours? I pretend.
2 minutes of a flower with a dew drop that is holding a rainbow. 15 seconds of the smell of turned earth. 8 minutes of silence and fog. 1/2 hour of a warm cat sleeping on my lap. I’ll take it.
I’m not happy. I’m not.
Did I mention that a mink got into the hen house? A couple weeks ago, when I could least deal with it, a mink, of all the damned things you could think of, guard against, a mink got in the henhouse. It killed 5 chickens. My pets. My little darling chickens. Joni, Elvis, oh never mind who it was, they got their heads torn off. It was bloody and horrible. Their sad, yellow feet sticking out of the towel before we buried them. My sister saw the mink. She didn’t even know what she was looking at. It was IN the henhouse when the door was opened. I had to go on line and look at pictures until we saw what it was. And even then I didn’t believe it. Mink?! Here?! Apparently we have mink here. And they can get though chicken wire.
So now it can’t. We framed the entire house in hardware cloth and dug it down. Now every night we can hear it trying to get in. So far so good. We have a live trap. Baited. Haven’t caught it yet. A mink. For god’s sake, I’m going to wear that mink someday.
And today…my drugs make me feel awful. I don’t want to write about it. I was thinking “What the hell, how long will it go on…how long can I do this?” and my uncle showed up with 3 watches. A Cartier Tank, a Phillipe Patak and a Tag Heaur (I can’t spell it, it’s a good watch though) Carrera. For me and Mom and Liza. Because time is so lovely and precious.
He didn’t know I am back in treatment. He just thought a $3000 watch would cheer me up, I guess. It was so out of left field. He has money but it isn’t like we’re close. Auntie Shirley, Dad’s sister, died, last year when I was in the hospital. He has come to visit and he bought $10,000 worth of watches. I’ve never owned anything so expensive. And guess what?
It cheered me up.
I have a nice watch. I took the Cartier Tank.
We bought 6 new baby chickens.
I made moussaka and souvlaki. I drank fine wine.
Maybe I will start writing again.
Maybe I can get though more than 8 hours without clenching my fists, shutting my eyes and enduring.
Maybe I’ll plan a trip to Greece. Take some time to look at the chance of joy in my life up coming. Plant some flowers.