Thoughts and technicalities

It is kind of funny how a mind can bend around the corners and weave through the fabric of life’s unannounced and unplanned changes. And how an attitude can bow and warp with the changes.

When I first heard I had cancer, I wasn’t surprised. Although, I didn’t feel it, the fact that I was sharing my body with little corrosives bits of blight was not a shocker.  Sorry, you don’t spend damn near four decades abusing your body without consequences. Eh, bursitis or cancer, pas de différence.

Well, technically speaking there is a difference between bursitis and cancer, but it’s a slippery slope between them. At least in my case it was. One day I’m cursing my carpal tunnel and sore elbow and the next day I’m dancing with malignancy. Not really dancing, but there were some careful steps that vaguely resembled a waltz; a poorly performed waltz.

My first thoughts did not leap to, “Let’s fight this monster.” It burrowed into the hole of my memories and visions. I saw… too clear… the good fight… the bitter defeat… the corpse on the slap. Please, when I’m gone, let no one view my body.

My first thoughts leapt to accommodation. What can we share for as long as possible? Does there really need to be a fight involved, or can we just all hold hands and sit around a campfire and sing “Kum-ba-yah”? Can’t we all just get along?

As the pain surged through my body, I became poignantly aware that the cancer wasn’t into holding hands. The little bastard is serious. Accommodation was not a workable plan. Other options didn’t come quickly. Slowly, I realized I was financially secure. I realized I had a support group.

I realized I had to choose what I wanted. What was right for me.  Watching Richard die again and again in my mind was not going to get me to the place I want to be. Nor was laying prone on my back and wailing, “Why me? Why me?”

So, I put on my big-boy pants and started to really think about my position.

You know, I wouldn’t mind living a little longer. Not like I want to live to 114, but I would be totally cool with 70; or maybe 69, just a good number. Much past 70 and my financial reserves dissolve in a pool on the floor and go down the drain. My plan at that point includes moving in with a niece or nephew and letting them care for me. Maybe, I shouldn’t have said that out loud. I already hear the “Not in my backyard” (or spare bedroom) refrain. Well, then just get rid of the backyard and the spare bedroom and you’re safe.

Frankly, I am fond of where I am. I like Hood River, I like my job (whatever is left of it) and I feel secure. Sometimes I think of selling the house and getting a condo-type affair in town. I think I could do a straight trade, or even pay a little less. But I would have to fix up the house first. (And the straight trade would be after fixing the existing house. I’m not sure someone could get a mortgage with the house in the condition it is in.)

But as long as I have to patch up the house, why not fix it up and stay in it as long as I can and then move on to that crumby little condo. That’s the spirit.

And I have some traveling still to do. I need to see Philadelphia again. And let’s not forget Charlottetown, even if the mirror can't do miracles anymore, and Amsterdam, and le sud de France and so many other places to see again. And so many places to see for the first time, Croatia, Estonia, Albania… you name it, I want to see it.

So, I will live for a few more years, while avoiding knocking on the ceiling of “really fucking old”, I will fix up my house (well, not I, but I will pay people to do it), and I will stay in my house for as long as possible. And I will travel any chance I get!

Sounds like a plan to me.