I will pass it along, if I can get back into the habit of writing again.
I cannot explain my recent writing reticence, at least not entirely. More than a hundred attempts to compose and update or write a poem have been abandoned in the last few months. Perhaps I fear a prose/poem power failure. Maybe my muse has lost her moxie. I could be lost in a fog of mental fatigue, aided and abetted by a chemically-induced procrastination coma (i.e., I'm too lazy and blame it on the drugs...).
Possibly, I had nothing to talk about...
The Four Stages of Mankind — Revisited
I was thinking about this old joke, because I realized I have been using it to deal with the unexpected giddiness I've been experiencing when, upon meeting friends, family, and acquaintances, they have commented: "You look good!" Prior to my adventures with CML, the phrase just didn't pop up very often in the course of my life.
Mirrors were never particularly kind to me, but were never brutally unkind until my weight reached the 320+lbs. mark — and that shocking morning that my father was looking back at me — through the looking glass. The lowest point was after the third chemotherapy session, while I was in Rochester, MN for evaluation and testing. Flesh was melting from my bones and my hair was coming out in clumps. The image in the glass was beginning to resemble the Cryptkeeper from Tales From the Crypt. I was molting...and looked revolting. I looked ill. I looked like a leukemia patient.
Months after my transplant, when folks started to comment that I looked good, I truly thought they were only being kind — trying to cheer me up. I often dissembled and deflected the compliments...using the ratty old Stages of Mankind joke. Now, I believe they were truly surprised that I looked so normal. Obviously, things have improved, although the loss of hair, moon face, and double chins which have accompanied my Prednisone treatments remain an unpleasant fact of life. My life hasn't been and will never be normal, but acknowledgement that I do not look ill is reassuring and life reaffirming for me. I may be wry and dry, and juggling the jokes, but I am pleased as punch you noticed.
Echoes of Joy
Please keep in mind that if I am cranky, it just might be the Prednisone pushing all the wrong buttons. If my face is set like flint, with a dour caste and tight lips, I may simply be trying devilishly hard not to cough in your face. If I seem distant and a bit sad, I probably am — because I cannot yet remember why I just walked into the room. If I am not talking, I may be listening — or I might be asleep or adrift on a daydream.
I have noticed lately that the affairs of the REAL world seem increasingly distant, softer, dimmer. It sometimes feels as though I am sitting beside myself, casually watching me be me, or roaming about while the rented house I inhabit merely rests and awaits my return. Sometimes I am awake when I dream, and sometimes I dream that I am awake. Talking to God has become easier, although staying awake long enough to finish my prayers can be a trial. I can be alone, without being lonely, and I enjoy simply inhabiting my own head, dusting off old memories and rejoicing that I can remember them. I am re-reading my library, as I seem to have forgotten so much about books I read years ago — that "everything old is new again."
Thank you for following along on my update. There is so incredibly much I want to say, to write, to sculpt and paint with words, before I drift away from this cracked shell — but it seems that, at least for awhile, I have forgotten how to say it. I am working on it, I truly am...
Thanks to all to continue to pray for us and send good thoughts our way.
Good night and God bless,