When We Used to Camp

You can find me at home these days, completing a crossword puzzle, reading a magazine, or snoozing. Snoozing is a wonderful thing that we don't experience often enough. It is different from sleeping, though.

Sleeping usually takes place in bed in a horizontal position. Dorothy sleeps a lot during her chemo weeks -- the buildup of drugs is dragging her down. I can sleep, too, for about 8 hours. Then, my body wants to get up and move.

Snoozing or cat napping happens spontaneously in any position. Our pillow-back living room furniture is very comfortable. One can put one's head back and be "asnooze" within seconds. It is not the furniture to choose when you want to read Tolstoy's War and Peace or a college textbook. It is good furniture for reading a short story or slogging through a crossword puzzle.

When we used to camp, before kids, Dorothy and I would bring our lounge chairs and a few good books. We would set the chairs in the middle of a clearing if it was cool or in the shade of towering pine trees if it was warm. We would read, fall asleep, read, fall asleep until it was time to make dinner.

Now that was a vacation. Happy snoozing!

Like a Magnet

The future draws me toward it like a magnet draws iron. Tuesday, I will start the winter season -- one of isolation. To many, this time is to be kept at a distance. Avoided, if possible. It attracts me and creates a strange anticipation. It is coming, no doubt, like tomorrow's weather. I see anvil-shaped clouds in the distance and I can't help but wonder what they will bring.

I have weathered storms like this before -- hernia surgery as a teenager and gall bladder removal in my forties. The pain is familiar and I know that it will pass. The unknown factor will be the ileostomy (look that one up). I feel no fear, but uncertainty about what it will be like to have my body altered in such a way.

No matter what the future brings, it will be different from today. And that is what pulls me into it. I am curious about what I will feel and how I will adapt. I do not anticipate dread and sorrow. In fact, I am not aniticipating anything at all. It will be what it will be.

Today is beautiful. I feel great. There are storm clouds on the horizon and they are full of awesome, healing power. I wonder what kind of tempest they will bring. I am waiting...

85 Percent

People have been asking me about my health. I give the same answer to each person, "I'm getting better every day. I'm about 85% back to normal." I would wonder what that meant if someone told me that. Here is how I arrived at 85%.

My stamina is not all there. For example, I took the bus downtown today for work. I walked from the Charles Street Metro Station to the office on Pratt Street (about 3 blocks) and used the stairs part of the time. My leg muscles ache -- I never had that problem before. I was hanging pictures and things in the bedroom last weekend and I had to take a rest after a couple of hours. I climbed the ladder (many times) to remove ice from our gutters a couple of weekends ago. I got sore from that. I need to face the fact that I'm not in shape (yet).

My colon is almost back to normal, but it still rules the roost every once in a while. It has greatly improved over the "discomfort" I felt during the chemo and radiation (85%?), but it is not operating at 100% predictability (yet).

I am playing guitar again and singing (my voice is about... you guessed it). I can stand and play for an hour or so, but need to sit down after that. I haven't taken up the trumpet again (yet).

By March 22, I'm sure I will be 100% back in shape -- just in time for the operation on 3/23.


BTW -- Dorothy is doing okay. She still struggles through the chemo weeks, but it seems to be a predictable struggle. Not fun, but not full of surprises either. Keep sending good vibrations.