Wishing on a Blue Star

by Kris Jacen

  “Are you mine, Kipling Rush?” Kip heard Crash’s voice as a rumble all through his being as he was lifted up, away, skyward.

  “Yes, I am yours Chemuel.”

  “Then come with me.” Air pulsed around them and Crash’s song found Kip’s heart, weaving what was left of him into something entirely new. Strange and different. Powerful and eternal.

  Chemuel-who-was-his sang their song.

  Chemuel, whose music could bring him back to life.

  As surely as Kip knew his life was over but had only just begun, he understood the words of Crash’s music for the first time.

  “In all the world, there is only we.”

  Wednesday, November 25, 2009

  Butch, meet bitch.

  For a creaky old ‘mo, I’m generally pretty solid. I like that in a man, so I like to be that kind of man. I can handle problems, have a fairly stable outlook on things large and small, and for the most part, I’m unflappable when it comes to stuff that truly matters.

  But once in a while....

  A few posts back, I used the analogy of jumping hurdles as a way to describe the day to day dramas we all star in.

  I wonder how many fans of the sport would ever admit that aside from the thrill of the race itself, the chief, albiet ilicit attraction is waiting for someone to take a tumble. Aside from relays, there is no greater potential for sheer mayhem than a bunch of people hopping over stationary, not not terribly stable, obstacles.

  Usually a runner hits a hurdle and by design, the thing drops flat and the guy continues on. If he can successfully recapture his timing and speed, he might even win. Occasionally though, the drop flat design of the average hurdle will work to disadvantage, and the crash will be spectacularly gruesome. Human bodies were simply not designed to juggernaut through metal and plastic obstacles and in such a confrontation the runner will always lose, in more ways than one, and blood will fly.

  Today I tripped over a hurdle that simply refused to fall away.

  I woke up at 7:30 or so, delighted that I slept for four whole hours. Answered a couple of the seemingly endless rounds of emails, and promptly fell asleep again. Three hours later, I woke up again at 11:00 with one thought on my mind; I miss my truck.

  Even the folks who knew me before the writing and before the cancer cannot truly understand the symbiotic relationship I have with my truck. For almost twenty years, mine has been transportation and load hauler as you’d expect, and every summer or when I was working on location, it was also my house. To put it mildly, it’s tricked out in greater detail than most full blown RVs. Just... smaller. :)

  On a more esoteric level, it’s also a manifestation of my independence, though I suspect that’s true for many, many people.

  I’ve not driven in over a month. Legally, I can but I decided I shouldn’t simply because that damnable fatigue hits so suddenly and without any warning at all. I could just see myself tooling down the highway and feeling that drain which signals a crash. Too likely it would become literal if I didnt have a place to pull off and damn fast.

  So I dont drive. Yet this morning, for the first time in ages, I felt like I could, and boy did I want to. Just to the gas station to flip lottery tickets or something. It didnt matter where I went. All that mattered was that I did.

  Silly boy, dont you know the universe conspires against you?

  Before I could make my great escape and prove my self sufficiency, I discovered one of the cats mistook the counter for either a convenient tree, or a litter box. By the time I had that cleaned up, and the toaster sitting outside, plugged in and burning off any possible “overspray” in the coils, I was sweeping the back porch, waiting for the charcoal that was once bread to do it’s job.

  Sweeping is such an innocent task, yet it proved to be my undoing and it robbed me of whatever reserves of energy I foolishly thought I had.

  As I set the broom aside on a nice sunny day and sat down, landed really, it hit me like the proverbial truck yet again that my contract for independence, the option and ability to pick up and go at the drop of a hat without hold or hindrance from anyone, was expired.

  All I had wanted to do was get in my truck, turn on some audio book, and drive. Such a simple thing that we take it for granted, maybe sometimes even see as a chore, and dont fully appreciate until it is gone.

  “Butch, meet your new life. His name is Bitch.”

  I wont tell you about the crying jag while sitting in my truck with the engine running and going nowhere, nor the almost fundamental need to get out and escape for a while, nor the sense of complete hopelessness that tripped me like a hurdle that didnt fall away, tangling my feet and slamming my face into the asphalt. No way could I even describe the sense of depletion that stole away my self control and showed me in unequivocal terms that no matter how desperately I wanted my life back, it simply wasn’t going to happen any time soon, if at all.

  While all of that did happen, it doesnt really matter because I got a reprieve.

  The kids came over to raid my Christmas boxes for decorations for their house. There is no one in the world who can shout at me from the sidelines to get up, get going, ignore the blood streaming from my nose, and run like my kids.

  Very likely there is no one else for whom I’d even try.

  If Doc has his way, I will be here forever, or I may be gone tomorrow, snatched out of his carefully tenacious grasp by an errant bus. Either way, for however long the race lasts, I will continue putting one foot in front of the other, running with the sound of a baby’s laughter in my ears and never looking back.

  Patric

  Thursday, November 26, 2009

  Bludgeoning the bird

  I hate the Thanksgiving holiday. Always have, for as long as I can remember.

  Never mind why. we all have certain holidays we’d rather just passed on by without fuss or muss, dont we?

  That said, there is one part I do like, and that is the original, supposed reason for the holiday to exist. Gratitude.

  No, I never liked the around the table “Tell us what you are thankful for, Patric.” Probably because the very first thing to enter my kid shaped brain was invariably “I’m thankful that we are eating because it means this day is almost over.” I sort of instinctively knew that comment would never fly, so I had to find suitably innocuous alternatives.

  None of which ever came close to what really mattered, because those things too generally wouldnt fly. :)

  As we get older, if we are lucky at least, or perceptions change, evolve, become wider in scope and awareness, and I’d like to think mine have similarly grown. Certainly, being glad my kitten got better after he was sick would be superseded by a new bike, passing math, having a car that actually runs, having a boyfriend that doesnt, and so on down the line.

  Now as I push on the other end of that proverbial line, I find that my general pragmatism in no way colors the sense of wonder I’ve managed to retain, and I have to be thankful for that above all else.

  I just got done changing the packing in the “cavernous maw” in my leg. While I was poking iodoform soaked strips into the hole and hating the task, I realized I was thankful that I could do it myself. So many people would not be able to. Which of course got me thinking, because today is supposed to celebrate gratitude after all, what else I might add to the list.

  Lets see....

  I’ve got a doctor I adore, I have people who, despite my best efforts, “brace the dragon in his den” and put up with me anyway, and I have, if not my health, then a fair shot at it someday.

  I have kids, and cats, who think I am made of gold, I have toys and computers, gadget freak that I am, that keep me entertained when I am stuck in the house, and I have the internet which keeps me connected to still more people so that I dont completely forget my own humanity.

  I have a brain that works, even at a diminished capacity, that lets me understand and appreciate what I have, and that lets me keep myself busy with meaningful things.

  I
have memories, both good and bad, that remind me I’ve spent my life fairly well, all told.

  I have the product of that life, things I’ve made and done, people I’ve met and influenced, and I’ve seen a million changes in the world, generally for the better.

  I have the things both great and small that make living at least doable, if not often pleasurable; a roof over my head, food to eat, people to laugh with, friends who care, and so on.

  All told, I have myself and all of the family, friends, lovers, life, and living that implies. I reckon that’s all anyone can really ask for, and it’s enough for me. :)

  Happy Thanksgiving!

  Patric

  Friday, December 4, 2009

  Bumpy Ride

  Oi. Sorry. I promised an update today and I’ve run out of steam after all.

  Nap time, then I should be able to fulfill my obligation... If the damn hiccups will cease.

  Groan. :)

  Two days later....

  Scratch that. FIVE days later....

  4th cycle sucks. No two ways around it.

  And right now, I cant even remember what happened in the last five days. Ups and downs like the proverbial roller coaster.

  If I missed something significant that I promised someone I’d mention, remind me.

  Oh, and I made a hat. :)

  Maybe the next update will be a little more useful.

  Yeah, and maybe I’ll live forever, too. lol

  Hugs y’all..

  Monday, December 7, 2009

  “It’s full of stars!”

  Okay, I never said I was the brightest candy cane in the tool shed. (How’s that for mixing metaphors?)

  But I just discovered comments....

  Yeah, really!

  Some of y’all have been leaving little notes here and there, and I never saw them until now.

  Never occurred to me to look, I suppose. (And yeah, I thought this bloggy thing would email me or something when someone posted, but even that’s really no excuse.)

  So.... My apologies for being remiss, and my gratitude for your attention!

  I admit, I’m suddenly seeing this update stuff in a whole new light. It was once just a way to cut back on all the email, and now it has a deeper meaning-- a welcome obligation to pay heed to others instead of just myself.

  How absolutely remarkable to be given such a gentle reminder to hang on to my humanity and *interact* with others, and in such a kind manner.

  Hence, the admittedly obscure title of this post. You people, you wonderful souls who take time out of your lives to touch mine, are all truly stars!

  Muaah!

  Patric (who is gonna poke around in the settings and make this beasty thing tell me next time a comment gets posted.) :)

  So If You’re Sand, Not Rock

  C. Zampa

  To My Little Sweetie, My Petit Garcon…

  So if you’re sand, not rock,

  Then you have the strength to polish our friendship like a stone,

  The beauty to sparkle in the morning sun of my day,

  The softness to succumb to the strong waves of my heart

  And bend with my feelings,

  The power to hold the mighty ocean of my heart within its limits,

  The warmth to comfort my feet when I tread,

  The miles and miles of vast stretches that never leave me

  Without a place to rest,

  The clay with which to build the sandcastles of my dreams,

  The substance in our hourglass of friendship

  Which never runs out,

  The resistance to withstand the swooping tide of night,

  And still be there when the surge washes back out to sea.

  But if you’re sand, not rock,

  I must cup you in my hands like precious gems,

  Hold my fingers tight together,

  Or you will slip through that sieve of my heart.

  But, since you’re sand, not rock,

  Even if you slip through the parting of my fingers,

  Where is there for you to go but back where I

  First found you, to the endless beach of our friendship?

  Because you ARE sand, not rock.

  Tuesday, December 8, 2009

  “Once around, again.”

  Someone asked me recently if I believed in karma. Thinking I knew where the question was headed I replied, “No, not if you’re talking about that come back as an earthworm bit to learn humility because you missed the lesson the first time around.”

  Well.... Seems karma decided teach me a lesson anyway. :/

  A few posts back I mentioned an abscess caused by infection. Fun stuff, that. Especially the twice a day packing where one fills the hole with strips of cloth impregnated with iodaform. (It’s what makes “the hospital smell.” Ugh)

  Last night, I discovered what I thought was my last bandage, the one I applied over the ‘gaping maw’ until it closed completely, had been soaked through. Subsequent digging, poking, and squeezing revealed a drainage point and I sent an email to the doctor handling the case, describing what I observed.

  Her response: “Come see me at 11:00am.”

  Sigh. I was afraid of that. :)

  I watched, fascinated, as she laid out her tools with the air of long practice. She chatted amiably about plans for her future, barely glancing at me as she tore open packages and pads, scissors and swabs, and laid them out on her tray.

  “This will be uncomfortable,” she said as she brandished a long handled cotton tipped swab. Her eyes met mine, and I’m sure I saw something like regret on her face.

  I shrugged and told her not to worry about it as I scrambled to get my video recording phone into position. Laid back as I was, I could see neither her work, nor the screen, and I hoped my estimated angle was correct.

  She nodded and turned to her task.

  I couldn’t help wonder what she was thinking as she poked and prodded, seemingly indifferent to the fact that her canvas was a living body, full of nerves and sensitive places that simply don’t respond well to the intrusion of foreign objects.

  Obviously she cared, else she wouldn’t have made her comment, and yet, she worked with the casual precision of a master painter, well versed in the art of wielding a brush. Such precision either comes from long practice, or from simply divorcing herself from the reality of the situation. Yet neither seemed to apply to this pleasant lady. She was not old, nor did she present herself as brusque or uncaring.

  As I looked down at myself, laid out like meat on a slab and still modest to the world, it occurred to me there must be a third option. Something I had not considered until now: Resolve.

  Her blue gloved hands were deft and sure, and her voice as she described her suspicion was steady and crisp.

  “Ah, that’s what I thought,” she said and held up the wooden handle of the swab, indicating the depth of her discovery with a thumb placed almost two inches from the opposite end. “You’ve got another pocket.”

  In layman’s terms, for I surely cannot remember the technicalities, she described a ‘hole beneath the hole’ where the previous infection, now thankfully gone, had left a kind of chamber that filled with fluid and needed to be drained.

  Again.

  I should have known, should have expected it. Hadn’t I described just such a thing during the first go-around, and hadn’t I removed a chunk of ‘stuff’ from that very hole? Knowing that the healing process must occur from the bottom up, I should have realized that the cavity was not simply ‘the space between muscle and skin’ as I originally thought, and should have packed deeper.

  My bad, but then again, I’m not a trauma surgeon. There are some things I do not know after all. :)

  I acknowledged her explanation and she looked at me again, closely.

  “I have to say, I am surprised by how stable you are. Most people wouldn’t be able to deal with this sort of thing very well.”

  “What sort of thing?” I asked.

  She shrug
ged. “You know, the pain, the packing. Stuff like that.”

  I smiled and nodded. “Oh. I have a high tolerance. That’s all.”

  True enough, but in light of my revelation watching her work, it came to me that there was perhaps another reason as well: Resolve.

  Simply put, personal resolve makes us do what needs to be done, even when the work isn’t enjoyable. Resolve carries us to destinations despite the hazardous travel conditions, and it allows us to be strong when we’d much rather run crying from the situation.

  Her resolve to do the work, despite the pain she knew she would cause. My resolve to accept the circumstances as fact and deal with them.

  Our resolve to reach our goals, regardless of the stumbling blocks life often puts in our path as we make and keep a place for ourselves in this wide world. Resolve guarantees we arrive, wiser if not safer, and cements our position in the great karmic equation.

  And personally, I have no intention of coming back as an earthworm. :)

  Thank you Angila, for your commitment and for your resolve. I wish you the best of luck on your new adventure, and I’m confident you’ll reach your chosen destinations easily. No resolve needed. :)

  Folks, I kid you not. I have the very best doctors in the world!

  Patric

  Saturday, December 12, 2009

  The Derivation of Comfort

  Content Advisory:

  The following post will likely contain copious quantities of whining. Feel free to take a pass and move on. The gods know I would, if I could. :)

  I often have long, sometimes heated discussions with my doctor. With the exception of once each month, these discussions take place solely in my head.

  Perhaps not so surprisingly, I often get the same answers from ‘Doc’, my imaginary oncologist, that I get from ‘John,’ the real thing. After all, ‘I don’t know.’ is fairly universal. :)