It’s 1:30 in the morning, and my alarm will be going off in 4.5 hours, and I worked 10 hours today, then walked for 3 + miles to clear my everything, of everything. And then did yoga too. Pretty sure I got accosted by a bat while I was walking. Or maybe a really big dragonfly. It was dark. It flew into my neck. I didn’t have my glasses on. I’m a big baby. I screamed a little. Possibly also jumped around like I was doing the Mexican Hat Dance. It was definitely a bat. But probably a really big dragonfly.
The bat incident, as it will henceforth be known, which is not to be confused with the mushroom or the spaceship getting closer to us, incidences, happened a bit after I got cocky, turned down a street I’ve never walked before, and then made a couple more turns, and got lost. In my own neighborhood. And had to use my GPS to find my way home. For the record, Leonidas, my 12 pound Pomeranian, is ridiculously cute, but he’s no Lassie. If me or Timmy fell down a well, we’d be fucked, because Leonidas would be too busy barking at squirrels to go get help. The incident was also after some dude on a bike pointed out to me that, as I paused to take a picture of a pretty stream thingy and trees, I was singing, ear buds in – out loud – likely not sotto voce, and also dancing. Which is apparently a frequent occurrence as some of my neighbors know me as the chick who sings, and dances while walking her little fluffy dog, who chases pit bulls. We’re cool, and everyone wishes they were us. And I’m awake but shouldn’t be.
There are more words that are brewing, and have been, about Chester. About his light dimmed too soon. (Except exactly when it was supposed to be?), and the gift that he gave me by having been. About lights of others dimmed to soon, too. About suicide, but not because this is my torch, my thing I’m going to work on. That’s my sister’s thing. But we need to keep talking. And about how artists do not need to be, or stay in, “tortured”, to create. They are also words about the impact of being molested as a young child. This too is not my torch, which strikes me as odd, as I’m pretty fucking passionate about the topic. But I can speak of it with horrific first hand knowledge. And maybe if I tell my story, or at least say that it happened, it will help give courage to one who still keeps theirs inside. Mostly I think the words still brewing are about Chester’s words about his own mind being a bad neighborhood, and how very much I GET that, but don’t want to get it. But now that I’m aware of it, I have to think deeply about it, to work through it. To shine light on it. For him. For me. For anyone else who may need it.
There are also more words about being light, and love, and confusion, and growth, transformation and tears of no known origin except I think I get the origin now, beauty, magic(k), and amazingness. Probably also about adventures soon to be had, and the gorgeous charitable organization, Hospice Rocks, I am privileged to be helping a friend create, or recreate.
These words today though, are about a dance. Not a fight against, but a dance with; cancer. Not mine, but that of my sister. Not the one referenced above, another sister. These words are the other heartbreak of which I’d referenced in my writing about Chester. Her diagnoses came days before his death, and the two events left my head in a swivet. My heart too. I’m writing because it’s part of how I process, when I’m not singing, or dancing. Or screaming. Because that week, the week of Chester’s passing, still trying to fathom that my sister has cancer, I screamed. Like; bullshit made for TV chick flick, screamed, so that I wouldn’t explode. Or implode. So I drove, and I screamed. Then I sang while driving. Then screamed some more. While crying.
And my sister has cancer. Which started out as a routine screening for colon cancer, found a mass. Which was NBD (no big deal) as far as cancer goes. Except a couple of weeks later it was metastatic, and in her liver. And stage 4. My sister, who never did an illegal drug in her life, who drinks socially, which is to say, not much, not often, never smoked cigarettes, has worked out fairly regularly for much of her life, has cancer. Seriously? SERIOUSLY? But she was a 9/11 first responder, so maybe its that? Or maybe cancer is just a mother fucker lacking rhyme or reason.
In addition to writing this as means of processing, I write this as a place for me to update where things are right now, for those who wish to know. She will starting chemo this week. Very aggressive chemo in 48 hour drips. The response rate is 60 to 70%. They will do a few rounds of chemo, then more tests to see how the cancer is responding.
This is also to ask every single person who reads this, who feels so inclined, to pray, to send healing, to cast spells, to burn offerings, to slaughter chickens (100% NOT serious about that one) to visualize her, whole, healthy, and completely free from illness. I ask also that, anyone who wishes to do so, send her comfort, and peace, as she embarks on this very aggressive treatment journey mapped out for her. To my brother in law, and my nephew too, if you would. I know we all have a lot to pray for (or kill chickens for) what with impending nuclear and/or civil war, on top of all the things each of us encounters in our personal lives, so please know that I offer my most sincere gratitude to each of you.
I’m also going to say, in case anyone hasn’t picked this up so far, I’m fucked up. I have an inappropriate sense of humor. I sometimes use humor to get through moments. What my sister is going through is a big deal, and I work every day to keep my energy around it at as a high a frequency as possible, when I’m not crying or angry. Its a big deal, but also, I’m fucked up, I almost punched someone in the face at a funeral in the past, (she had it coming!) and sometimes I laugh when people do things like fall up the stairs, so I’m going to joke about how I now have to have an anal probe. How September 11th (more than likely the day) is what I am now referring to in my head as “anal probe Monday.” Don’t judge me. Or do, whatever. I like Southpark. And I believe in aliens. (But don’t know that anal probing is one of the services they offer.) I’m not going to Katie Couric this, and have my anal probe (my mom is so proud right now!) filmed for TV, but also, I’m going to joke about it. Except I have to have it done because my sister has cancer, and it might be a familial thing, and I’m 50. So for myself, and my other siblings it has been /Oprah voice *you get an anal probe, and you get an anal probe, and yep, you TOO get an anal probe!* But really, its cancer, and, #fuckcancer.
Now its 3AM, because I paused in the writing to sit and think, and feel, and send myself to you, to wrap myself around you for a moment, and sing. Now I need to sleep. Now maybe I’ll be able to sleep, and dream, and for a minute forget.