The Most Survivable Cancer

Dan Fogalberg died yesterday–or was it Monday? I am sure he won’t mind that the days have kind of run together on this side of the veil. Dan joins a long list of folk who haven’t survived the most treatable of cancers. He hadn’t had his 60th birthday. Isn’t prostate cancer supposed to be for old men?

I risk saying goodbye with a rant. Prostate cancer has changed my life and I never had my own personal, in-my-body prostate. I used to have one that I claimed as part and parcel of a man I love more than life itself. It was mine as much as his heart is mine. Cancer and a skillful surgeon relieved us of that burden. They also relieved us of coitus, a secure sense of our sexual being, and sure knowledge that there would always be time to get to the bathroom.

But Dan Fogalburg lost the battle this week and we are still up to fight another day. The PSA tests keep coming back negative and some days it even seems like the Big Guy understands that an erection is not my measure of the man. Maybe the depression will lift and stay lifted for more than a day at a time. But one of the brothers in the war has fallen.

It’s hard to say goodbye. I don’t know if the quality of Dan’s life these last few years was better, worse, or about the same as ours. I find myself hoping that he beat the odds on impotence and incontenence. If ya gotta die, well, it just seems mean to have to endure the peculiar indignities of prostate cancer as well.

So, bye Dan. Loved your tunes.

Smile Pretty

I work in a very high stress environment. We are on deadline for everything including bathroom breaks. In the midst of our daily obstacle course, we are also subject to command performances–attendance at meetings to which we have no meaningful input and which require no particular output from us. So we go. We sit. We smile. And whatever we should have accomplished in the hour of go–sit–smile gets done after hours, on lunch, or when we would much rather be playing with our kids. We start out behind the eight ball and a lot of it could be skipped.

Among my character flaws: I do not suffer fools gladly. It is a failing. I do not have a smiley, come-tell-me-about-your-day kind of face. If I am annoyed, I may as well have a neon sign across my forehead that proclaims to all, “Bullshit.”

Conversely, I am a lot less easily annoyed than many people think. For some reason, many people decide that I have my feelings hurt about things that I could not care less about. What they perceive as my feelings being hurt is really an opus attempt not to tell them that, whatever their current foolishness, it is too damned late to start over. There is never time to do it right but always time to do it over. No one wants to hear it. Your face can take on a peculiar expression when biting your tongue.

This week I have been accused of being overly emotional, and maybe I am. There is a lot in my life that is not much fun right now. I have also been accused of being a perfectionist. That, my cyberfriends, is laughable. I am not a perfectionist; I am a pragmatist. What does it take to get from here to there? How long will it take? And is there anything we can do to make the trip more pleasant–or to arrive in one piece? Failing that, what can we skip entirely?

My face in repose does not look like Pollyanna or Doris Day or Goldie Hawn. I have the kind of countenance that invites questions like “Are you alright.” When God slapped my mouth onto my face, he turned the corners down rather than up. It isn’t my fault; I was just drawn that way. Sometimes, I am really beautiful. I know; I have seen the pictures. More often, I look like I’d rather be somewhere else. It isn’t even that I would rather be somewhere else–my mind IS somewhere else, probably trying to do what I get paid to do. My eyebrows knit and the little frownie lines furrow into valleys when I concentrate. It doesn’t mean I am pissed off. Leave me be or I could GET pissed off.

I have no tolerance for the smile police. I don’t do cute and perky well at all. It always comes off sarcastic. See, there is no win. When there is no win; it may be best not to play. 

…see in a mirror dimly…

I have had a pretty shitty last few days. That really makes you want to read more, doesn’t it?

My mother died in February. Should be a non-event because we had been fairly well ‘estranged’ for years. That’s old news and a different blog topic too. I have been missing my pre-years-ago, pre-dementia mother. I’ve needed a mom lately–the mythical one who probably never existed. Maybe it’s because this is the first holiday season after her demise. Maybe it is because last Christmas she was alive and not at all present. Maybe it is because I feel my life changing in ways that don’t follow any of the roadmaps I had considered for myself.

I miss the relationship I thought I had with my sister.  More immediate and day-to-day, I  mourn a work-place friendship that seems to have stalled (or crashed) due to teen-angst-bullshit, mental masterbation, and by some observations, an unwillingness on either side to be anything but right…or at least an unwillingness to have the other be always right. And I miss my best friend, my Big Guy, who is fighting his own demons in his own way and his way doesn’t seem to be working so well.

The Big Guy just had another plumbing repair procedure. He is taking his recouperation pretty seriously to the detriment of relationships that are feeling fairly tenuous right now anyway. I NEVER expected to be angry with him. I NEVER expected to be the only one supporting this little household. and I certainly NEVER expected to feel so resentful  of so many totally unintentional (read inconsiderate, thoughtless) omissions. It has not been a good week.

So in the spirit of ‘how miserable can I make myself?’ I have let myself be dragged into discussions about my mental/emotional state. Did you read “teen angst bullshit” earlier?This is a bad idea–particularly in a corporate setting–particularly in a corporate setting with people who have their own baggage and issues. Come to think of it, are there any people who don’t? Really?

One tear led to another and one opinion expressed was just one too many. There are times when talking about my pain only focuses it–not good when the pain is crystal clear to begin with. The only way through it is through it. Any other course is just wasting time and energy. For my part, since it is a journey I have to make alone anyway, I’d just as soon do it my way and quickly. Just let me leave it at home..and for that matter, how about you leave your attitude and baggage at home too?

So how do I say: “No, you cannot help. Not everything in my life has anything to do with you. When my heart is through breaking I will know what I need to do for myself and if I don’t, maybe I’ll ask (sotto voce–but I probably won’t ask you).” without sounding like a total snark?