There was that meltdown at the Cancer Agency on May 17. Later found out that a woman who has been on a very similar cancer journey - Judy Burtnick - died that same day. Her passing hit me harder than I would have expected, mostly because I didn't know her very well. I first met Judy when I was on the psych ward at St. Mary's back in 2007. Although not assigned to my case, she was a counsellor with Mental Health and Addictions so I saw her around on the ward. A charming woman with a great sense of humour, we met up several months later in the waiting room at the BC Cancer Agency. She and her partner both had breast cancer, and her partner and I had the same oncologist. The three of us struck up a conversation which continued every time we met after that. Judy and I received our "terminal" diagnosis at about the same time. Whenever we bumped into each other, usually in the aisles of Clayton's grocery store, we joked about how good looking we were for a couple of dead women. The joke was on me as Judy seemed to be in much better health than me. So why did she go first?
A couple of weeks ago, I came across Pat Parker's obit in the local paper. Pat was a chemo buddy from the days when I hooked up with IV at St. Mary's ACU. Pat and his wonderful wife Jeanie always had something interesting to talk about whether it was the recommendation of a newly discovered wine or their critique of Cirque du Soleil's O show in Vegas (they went a couple of months before Penny and I). We hadn't been in contact for several months so I was shocked to learn of Pat's death. Such a sweet, gentle man.
So why am I still here?
I've started seeing a counsellor, Karen Flood, at the BC Cancer Agency. She specializes in working with breast cancer patients. In the brief 1-1/2 hours we spent together, several mental light bulbs went off in my tiny brain.
The first thing Karen said that really struck a chord was that I seem to be currently "living in limbo". Up until now I've spent most of my time (when not sleeping or in treatment) getting ready to leave, as it were. I've put my affairs in order, made many of the details of my funeral/ash disposal wishes known (some yet to be finalized), did my best to ensure Momzy was properly cared for and that her affairs were in order, completed some home renovations to enable me to stay in my much-loved wee house as long as possible ... Given that nobody was certain I would make it to my next birthday (which was in March), I'm now left wondering what to do next. While I have never found myself in such a situation, I have to imagine my current mindset is not unlike that of a patient who has prepared for a very dramatic surgery, we'll say a heart transplant, only to be told on the day of the scheduled operation that the procedure has been delayed. Don't get me wrong. I'm more than a tad thrilled to have the chance to enjoy more time with the people I care so much about and have the opportunity to do some of the things I haven't done yet, but I was kinda geared up to share some heavenly milk and cookies with my dad! Hope he saves some for me as it seems our rendezvous ain't happening just yet. Not that I'm complaining about that. But it would be nice to see him again. Tears started flowing with that thought.
Karen also noted that I have done next to nothing in the creative realm over the past four years. A strange thing for an artist, to be sure. Yeah, I've made the necessary items for the annual weaving guild exchange (mittens last year, felted bird pin this year), started knitting two sweaters and several scarves (none of which are completed), looked at my empty loom a few times, and did a few cursory dye experiments, but nothing that gets to the core of my soul. While sitting in Karen's comfy office, I remembered a mixed media piece I started planning shortly after my surgery. I fully intended to abuse a piece of canvas in a very similar manner to the way cancer had attacked my left breast. More tears flowed as I visualized slashing the canvas in a crescent moon-like line to represent the shape of my scar. I imagined throwing blood on it, stitching up the wound, burning it with a soldering iron (think radiation burns), and other similar indignities. That scenario has planned over and over in my head these past four years, but I haven't been able to translate the thought into anything concrete. In fact, I haven't done a single thing that can be remotely described as cathartic this whole time! Cried more in the time I spent in Karen's office than I have spent since the initial cancer diagnosis. Sorta throws to the wind the theory that I've been coping extremely well, doesn't it?
Well, I've made a start. Bought a canvas at the dollar store on the way home that day. Drew the curved line, slashed it with a knife, and poured blood over the incision (not my blood but some that conveniently arrived in a package of roast beef that I was having for dinner that night). Can't find my soldering iron. If it doesn't turn up by tomorrow, I'll use a match instead. And yes, I'll do the burning outside. Have started assembling bits for two more pieces that I hope will be equally cathartic. And I've returned to dyeing experiments with natural materials - I'm sure there is a metaphor in there somewhere.
So that's what my little brain has been up to this past while. Wonder what it will be like when it comes out the other side.
Here's a bit of inspiration from Van Morrison:
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