More Scanxiety

Last week, I had a brain scan.

On Friday, I met with the oncologist. There were more questions than answers. On Tuesday, I met with the neurosurgeon. Even more questions.

It may be anything from 2-6 weeks before I get more answers. Please don't take this to mean that we must panic for the next 2-6 weeks.

It means that we wait. Impatiently. Anxiously. But not panicked.

To pass the time, I am writing (more than just the blog!) and staying inside because I do NOT want the flu.

Anyway. Good times.

So how's everybody doing out there in the interwebs? Read anything interesting lately?

7 month cancerversary

7 months ago I received my diagnosis.

Everything has changed. I have changed.

I don't know what else to say. Happy anniversary?

I don't need or want congratulations. I want to not have cancer.

I cried so many times, until I thought I would drown in my tears.

7 months feels like a lifetime. I've grown older and more self-aware. I've become contemplative. Everything is different, every thought is different, tainted by the reality of cancer.


7 months feels like only a moment, ephemeral and disappearing in the blink of an eye.

Here's to 7 more months!

Books: The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly (Fin)

I am finally and unfortunately finished with this story. This is the kind of story that I wish I could start again and read it for the first time again. Immediately upon finishing this story, I realized that I would need to rearrange my top 10 favorite books, because this Book of Lost Things was firmly in the top 5. At the ending of this beautiful book, David returns to the land that is not quite like our own to find that it continues to reveal surprises.

"[A] woman appeared. She had dark hair and green eyes. In her arms she held a baby boy, barely out of the womb, who clutched at her blouse as she walked, for a lifetime was but a moment in that place, and each man dreams his own heaven. And in the darkness David closed his eyes, as all that was lost was found again" (Connolly 338-9).

Damn you, John Connolly, for writing a book that brought actual tears to my eyes! It has been quite a long time since a book has made me cry, and every time I re-read these last few sentences, I feel that tingle, as if I were cutting onions.

I don't know if everyone fears death, but I do know that there are only two innate fears that every human is born with: falling, and loud noises (the "acoustic startle reflex"). Do I fear death?

Sometimes.

Sometimes it terrifies the hell out of me. One thing that I struggle with is the unknown (as I am sure is common for many of us). Death being the ultimate unknown is terrifying. But occasionally, every once in a long while, I will find a moment of peace. Was I afraid of being born? What, fundamentally, is the difference?

Unanswerable questions.

Back to The Book of Lost Things: a death like David's seems almost unfair. No pain. No trauma. Just the final literal steps in a journey, only to be greeted by those whom he had loved and lost and found again.

If death is like this, there is nothing to fear. There is nothing but joy and love at the end of the journey. We could spend a lifetime regretting the things we may or may not have done, but regret is meaningless in the end. Regardless of what you do or do not believe in, and regardless of your faith or lack thereof, save the regrets. Instead, spread joy and love where you can.

So.

Instead of regrets, I will try to cherish my memories and my mistakes. Those mistakes have made me who I am today. In the end, I can only hope that sharing joy and love will balance out any mistakes I have made.

Anubis casting judgment in S1 Ep3 of American Gods

Books: The Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell with Bill Moyers (Part 5)

I am almost finished with The Power of Myth by Campbell and Moyers.

Before I get to that, remember that last time, I talked about learning from our imperfections, and I examined the cycle of death and life and death again. I looked at the beauty and ugliness in the world, and in myself, and I pondered the meaning of life.

I feel like some may think that my cancer has made me morbid and self-involved with this little blog of mine.

Some may think that I am being obsessive to spend so much time thinking about death. That I'm giving up hope and letting the cancer take over. That I don't believe in the possibility of a miracle for my incurable cancer.

The thing is, for so many people, the D-word is a word used only in whispered conversations, laced with euphemisms. Passed away. Lost the battle. In a better place.

I am not obsessed with death.

For the first time, I am forcing myself to contemplate the ultimate and universal reality.

To pretend that any of us will escape death is to indulge in a childish fantasy. I am not giving up, and I am not going down without a fight.

So think of how you prepare for a battle. You would never go into battle without checking your kevlar vest and making sure you have extra ammo, right? You would be sure that the tools you need for battle are all functioning, right? You would study the maps and memorize the evacuation routes, right?

What I am learning is that no matter how much I prepare by reading books by Buddhist nuns, battle-hardened admirals, historians, philosophers, and other academics, ultimately, death is not the enemy.

Yes, life is too short, but that doesn't mean that death is to be hated, feared, demonized. It is simply part of the journey that we all travel. For some of us, the journey may be uneventful and even banal, and for some, the journey might be a terrible adventure that constantly tests our will, our strength, our souls.

In Robert Frost's poem "The Road Not Taken," a poem I have taught many times in many classrooms, I have had to disabuse my students of the idea that this poem is about a meaningful choice. It is too easy to read the final few lines and understand it to mean that the choice is significant in any way.

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference" (Frost).

In patiently reading the rest of the poem, it becomes more clear that the illusion of choice is more powerful than we might think.

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference" (Frost).

I choose to contemplate death, not because I'm dying of cancer (I'm not, not that I know of!), but because all of us are dying of something. To be intentional in this contemplation means that I have to make a choice to think about the D-word, but the reality, just like in Frost's poem, is that whether I choose to think about it or not actually doesn't matter.

Think about death. Contemplate it. Meditate on it. Fear it. Taunt it. None of these will change the reality that death happens. Just like life happens. Death doesn't make the world a bad place. Death is not evil; in the long run, it is far more neutral than any of us would probably prefer. Bad things happen to good people; good things happen to bad people. It all balances out in the end.

So let's get back to The Power of Myth. Campbell says,

"[T]here is a Muslim saying about the Angel of Death: 'When the Angel of Death approaches, he is terrible. When he reaches you, it is bliss'" (Campbell and Moyers 279).

If the approach of the Angel of Death is meant to be so terrible, how is it possible that the end result of this Angel's arrival should result in perfect happiness? The juxtaposition of these ideas may seem confusing, but I think that they complement each other perfectly. Rather than fearing the pain of death, why don't we consider it as simply another phase of an inherently painful life?


Campbell says:

"At the very end of the Divine Comedy, Dante realizes that the love of God informs the whole universe down to the lowest pits of hell. That's very much the same image [of the bodhisattva]. The bodhisattva represents the principle of compassion, which is the healing principle that makes life possible. Life is pain, but compassion is what gives it the possibility of continuing. The bodhisattva is one who has achieved the realization of immortality yet voluntarily participates in the sorrows of the world" (Campbell and Moyers 139).

I've mentioned before that I am a lifelong cynic who expects nothing but the worst in any particular situation, and that it is easy to continue being a cynic. I am cynical, pessimistic, apprehensive, and any other synonym you could think of to describe this attitude. I had never heard of the bodhisattva, but this idea that an entity could escape death, and choose to embrace life, even with the pain and hurt involved in living, left me deep in thought.

It is a significant and meaningful choice to embrace a life of pain. It means something.

It is not the road less traveled, because we all travel this road, whether through intentional choice or random chance. We travel this road, we experience the pain that is inevitable in all of life, and hopefully, we embrace each other, sharing compassion and easing the pain.

There is no need to isolate ourselves in our fear.

Let's talk tea!

I used to hate tea. I thought it tasted like nothing more than dirt water. There was a time where I would rather die of thirst than drink nasty old tea. It was gross!

I was a coffee girl. I like my coffee like I like my men: strong and sweet! Cappuccino, macchiato, hot, cold, frappe, latte, any and all of the above.

Seriously, look at this sexy beast!

The thing about coffee is that these days my stomach can only handle one at a time. Since The Husband is at work, it is hardly worth it to make a pot of which I will only drink one. Also, I'm lazy.

Keurig and those types of systems are not for me. They are wasteful (all those pods) and they are not worth the price per cup. Also, the coffee just isn't very good. Yes, I am a coffee snob. I like Starbucks*. I think Dunkin burns their beans; their coffee is bitter in an unpleasant way. QT is good (and affordable)**.

Anyway. I digress.

So. Tea. Dirt water.

A few weeks ago, whatever week it was that we had winter for like four days here in South Carolina before summer came back with 60-70 degree weather, I decided that I was going to find a tea and I was going to like it.

The Husband (look at that face up there 😍) indulged my nonsense, and we went to the grocery store to buy a couple of boxes of tea. Keep in mind, we bought two boxes of tea even though I didn't (at that time) like tea.

Well, evidently, I made some good choices for once. It took a little trial and error, and the advice of a friend and feedback from a sister to refine my tea-making skills, but I am happy to report that I have somehow, in less (fewer?) than a couple of weeks, learned to love tea!

And this AWESOME mug was a gift from The Husband!

Turns out vanilla chai is delicious, and inspiring. Some of my best writing lately has been on vanilla chai.

Chamomile is amazing. Having something warm to drink before bed helps get me into the right cozy sleepy mood.

* This should be read as: I like to sit and just hang out at Starbucks while drinking their decent coffee.
** But not the best place to hang out...

Books: The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly (Penultimate)

Towards the end of this story, David has grown old. He married and was widowed. He wrote his story in the book that I hold in my hand now, and he called it The Book of Lost Things. As he did in his childhood, he can hear the books in his room speaking to him; however, unlike his time as a child, he is no longer afraid of the voices.

"[I]n the deepest, darkest hours of the night, David would lie awake and listen. The books had started whispering again, yet he felt no fear. They spoke softly, offering words of comfort and grace" (Connolly 337).

My entire journey with this diagnosis has been one of learning to give myself grace. We are all our own worst critics, and I will be the first to admit that I am no peach, but I have learned the hard way that I need to be more forgiving of myself. I mess things up. I forget things. I drop food on the floor. I trip over nothing, and lose my balance like a drunk sailor even in the stability of my own house. Grace has been a difficult gift to give myself.

Meanwhile, I have more books than I will ever have time to read, The Husband built me three heavy-duty bookshelves with approximately 75 feet of shelf space total, and yet I still have books in my Amazon cart that I plan to order soon.

There was a time when I feared the future. I always said that life is too short for bad books, and I was afraid of there coming a time when I couldn't escape into the worlds contained within those hallowed pages. After brain surgery, I couldn't read; not that I was illiterate, but that I was incapable of maintaining the focus necessary for reading. After my diagnosis, I had an existential crisis. What was the point of reading stories, beautiful, engrossing, dreamlike stories, if there is an expiration date stamped on my brain?

I didn't want to die in the middle of reading a book. I didn't want to leave a story unfinished.

It has taken a lot of time, and a lot of meditation for me to realize that the only thing I can do is keep on keeping on. Inertia is my friend here. I have found myself able to lose myself in books once again (ha! Get it?). I have escaped into worlds unknown and worlds intimately familiar, like old friends .

I'm still interacting with the idea of giving myself grace. But after that hiatus from reading immediately after my surgery, I am so grateful that I can lose myself in the countless worlds that surround me in the pages of my treasured books. Truth be told, like David in this book, I find comfort in being surrounded by my books. They are my oldest friends, my truest family, my beloveds.

This may seem callous to my friends, my family, or The Husband, but everyone who knows me knows that I am who I am because of these books. The book that inspired me to apply to Clemson University (The Hot Zone by Richard Preston). The book that inspired me to teach (The Grass is Singing by Doris Lessing). The book that inevitably brought me to tears when I needed a good cathartic cry session (The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger). The books that inspired tattoos (The Traveler by John Twelve Hawks, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams, The Sandman Series by Neil Gaiman). I have found inspiration and comfort within the pages of these books. I have found how to mend a broken heart, and how to love, truly love. I have learned about myself, and other people. My own culture and those unknown to me. My mind and my heart. My fears and my passions. So much still to learn.

I am surrounded by my cherished books, and they offer me comfort and grace.

New Series: Fave Quote of the Book

So.

I have an idea:

I don't know if it's a good idea, but I don't care, I'm gonna do it anyway.

I've been reading pretty voraciously for my entire life. This diagnosis has slowed down my reading speed, but not my appetite. I am currently simul-reading two books (one fiction, one non-fiction). As soon as I finish one of them, I'll start on the next. I can simul-read up to three books at a time, but they have to be in different genres, otherwise my brains hurt.

Anyway, I'm telling you all of this for a reason. I have really enjoyed blogging about the books I've been reading, but the reality is that I'm reading them much faster than I am blogging about them. The two that are currently in action (The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly and The Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell and Bill Moyers) will be completed as usual, with updates every couple of days for both of the books. I estimate I have just over a week's worth of posts scheduled and ready to post before I finish with these two books.

In the meantime, because I am reading faster than I am writing (more accurately, I am spending more time reading than I do writing), I want to introduce a new series of posts. Instead of full and in-depth book reviews and discussions, I will choose my favorite single quote from a book and talk about why it is my favorite. I don't know yet if there will be a theme, but at the very least I will provide title and author, image of the book cover, and link to Amazon.

So yeah, things are going to change a little around here. The frequency of posts may decrease. I will still update about my diagnosis when I feel it is appropriate, but if there is no update, it is pretty safe to assume that no news is good news.

So, book lovers and bibliophiles alike, strap in, put on your helmets, and brace yourselves: we are in for an interesting ride!

Books: The Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell with Bill Moyers (Part 4)

I am still working my way through The Power of Myth, and today, I want to think about the answer to life, the universe, and everything.
Before I get to that, remember that last time, I talked about learning from our imperfections, and I examined the cycle of death and life and death again. I looked at the beauty and ugliness in the world, and in myself.

I'm mentioned before that I've been a lifelong cynic, always the pessimist. I am sarcastic, I have a dark and morbid sense of humor, and I am composed of 65% snark, 25% spite, and 25% bad at math. I've been a lifelong cynic because life has been hard. I suffered a traumatic loss at fifteen years old. My first husband was no gem. My bad attitude cost me friends. I was an underachiever. I was born right at the edge of Gen X and right at the beginning of the Millennial generation; cynicism comes naturally to me.

Campbell discusses men risking their lives to rescue their compatriots during the Vietnam War. I would argue that it takes an extremely idealistic type of person to take such a risk for someone else. This kind of person must do what they do because there is some hope that they will succeed. Campbell says,

"Life is pain; life is suffering; and life is horror—but, by God, you are alive. Those young men in Vietnam were truly alive in braving death for their fellows" (Campbell and Moyers 141).

Life is funny that way. No matter how pessimistic we are, no matter how low our expectations are, life finds a way to kick you in the rear. All that pain, all that suffering, all that horror.


All of this adds up to so much terribleness (that doesn't seem like it should be a word), and yet here we are, plugging along, doing the best we can, even though we hurt, and we die. Even though we are frightened and alone. Even though we are betrayed and broken-hearted.

I know that I have the darkness: the pain, suffering, and horror are inside of me. I suspect they are inside of so many others.

But sharing that darkness inside of me with you allows me to have a spark of hope.

All it takes is one spark to light a fire.

Books: The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly (The Gift of Ignorance)

While David is in this land that is not quite like our own, he is stalked by the villain of the story, the Crooked Man. At this point, he has discovered the Crooked Man's lair, with a thousand rooms and for each room, a story. Many of these rooms have stories that are almost, but not quite, familiar. A girl with a red hood. A gingerbread house. A witch.

In one of those rooms,

"a woman sat facing a blank wall, endlessly combing her long, silver hair. Sometimes, the Crooked Man would take those who had angered him to visit the woman, and when she turned to look at them, the would see themselves reflected in her eyes, for her eyes were made of mirrored glass. And in those eyes they would be allowed to witness the moment of their deaths, so that they would know exactly when and how they would die. You might think that such knowledge would not be so terrible, and you would be wrong.

We are not meant to know the time or the nature of our deaths (for all of us secretly hope that we may be immortal). Those who were given that knowledge found that they could not sleep or eat or enjoy any of the pleasures life had to offer them, so tormented were they by what they had seen. Their lives became a kind of living death, devoid of joy, and all that was left to them was fear and sadness, so that when at last the end came they were almost grateful for it" (Connolly 295).

I have mentioned many times before that I have my oncology team with all of their fancy degrees. These are very smart people. These are the only people allowed to provide me with medical advice. No Dr. Google, right? This passage also explains exactly why I choose (at least for now) intentional ignorance. For all I know, I have 10 days, 10 weeks, 10 years in front of me. As a direct result of my intentional ignorance, I have been able to not only enjoy beautiful things, but also forget, even for a few moments here and there, that I have cancer. There was Sunflower Day. The day that I didn't ring that bell. I got to Van Gogh to the Museum. I went to a hockey game.

The Husband has given me the gift of maintaining intentional ignorance, and it truly is a difficult gift to give. He carries the weight of knowledge on his shoulders and in his soul, and I know that weight is a difficult one to bear.

Because he has given me this incredible gift, I have had so many moments of pure joy. We have so many moments that I don't usually share, because to me, they are sacred.

I still don't have an official prognosis. Perhaps at the next scan there will be more news. But right now, because The Husband has given me the gift of intentional ignorance, I am able to experience true joy. The life I get to experience now is so fundamentally different from the Before. I try not to grieve too much for the Before life. Life now is different, but certain things have not changed. The Husband is still as big a dork as before (I can say that because I, in fact, am also a big dork). We still laugh together. I am grateful that I can still laugh, even in the face of all of this ugliness, but that is only possible because I have The Husband, the greatest gift of all.

Have I mentioned that I love this guy?

HOCKEY!!

So, on Saturday night, The Husband and I were lounging around and poking about on Groupon. As a result of this stupid diagnosis, we have not done very much in the past several months, and it used to be that we could pretty regularly find something fun/interesting/unusual to do.

So I found on Groupon a deal for tickets to the Greenville Swamp Rabbits game yesterday. We had no other pressing plans for Sunday, so we went ahead and bought tickets to the game.

Now, I don't know what a swamp rabbit is. I looked it up, and they look like this:

Kinda cute, I guess?

Before I continue, I have to tell you that I LOVE hockey. I grew up watching the Hartford Whalers, and I've never found a team that I love as much as I loved the Whalers. When they ceased to exist, I continued to love hockey, but merely for the sake of the game. We went to the Swamp Rabbits game yesterday afternoon. Honestly, these days when I get a chance to see a hockey game, I'm excited, but I really don't care who wins. I am the screaming fan who cheers for whoever and boos the opposing team, but it doesn't really matter to me who wins. When it comes to hockey, I'm just there for a good time: pretzels, cotton candy, whooping and hollering like a fool. But still, when the Swamp Rabbits scored a tying goal with 4.2 seconds left in the 3rd period, I screamed so hard I might actually have left my tonsils behind! Unfortunately, they didn't pull it through in overtime, losing to the Florida Everblades* 5-4.

Go Swamp Rabbits!

Incidentally, in looking up info about the Hartford Whalers, it turns out that they are now the Carolina Hurricanes. It looks like I have a new team to be partial to!

Ok, so hockey.

I love hockey, but more importantly, I love The Husband for agreeing at the very last minute to take me to some random-ass hockey game for a team we had never heard of and a creature that was a mystery to us. We got surprisingly good seats, and as an experienced hockey spectator who also gets cold really easily because of the giant hairless spot on my head, I knew that I had to bundle up and wear layers.

I love that guy!

There we are having a grand old time cheering on the ridiculous Swamp Rabbits. Seriously, it's the most (good) excitement I've had all year!** We had such a good time at the game, and I cheered so hard that today I'm alternating hot tea and ice-cold water to soothe my poor throat.

As soon as the game was over and we were sitting in the car waiting to get out of the parking garage, we went back on Groupon and got tickets for another game soon!

The Husband really is the best.

Cheers to a life more extraordinary!

*What a stupid name. #SorryNotSorry
**I'm sorry, I had to crack the joke while the year is still young!

Books: The Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell with Bill Moyers (Part 3)

I am still working on The Power of Myth, and today, I want to talk about a concept with which I've always been fascinated: beauty. Before I get to that, remember that last time, I talked about learning from our imperfections, and I examined the cycle of death and life and death again.

I've written term papers about beauty versus ugliness, and thought at length about the ramifications of the conventional Western beauty standard. This diagnosis of mine has changed me in so many ways, including in the way that I think about beauty. I've mentioned before that I don't consider myself to be vain, and I've discussed my hair at length. I still don't consider myself overly vain, but I will say that the way I think about beauty has changed a bit.

In the before, I used to consider beauty primarily in regards to the physical: people, faces, bodies. I found beauty in the written word, the shape of trees, the melody of my favorite songs. It simply hadn't occurred to me to deliberately consider the intangible beauty that can be found elsewhere.


Campbell discusses art and beauty.

"When a spider makes a beautiful web, the beauty comes out of the spider's nature. It's instinctive beauty. How much of the beauty of our own lives is about the beauty of being alive? How much of it is conscious and intentional" (Campbell and Moyers 100)?

In the world outside of us, there is so much beauty, and in the worlds within us, there lies beauty as well. There is beauty in reconnecting with old friends, even when the cause of this reconnecting is so very ugly. There is also beauty in meeting new friends, becoming part of a community through shared adversity.

I've felt such ugliness. When I was first diagnosed, I did not feel any beauty in being alive. I was devastated that this extraordinary life of mine had turned out to be so ugly. I tried to deny the truth of this diagnosis. I simply couldn't imagine living in a world where this was my reality.

My anger was all-encompassing.

I hated the world and everything in it. It was ugly, and I couldn't bear to be a part of a world that harbored this ugliness inside of me. I could find no beauty in being alive.

You have to understand, even when the emergency room doctor told me that there was a mass on my brain, I never once considered cancer. Even the word is ugly.

As time has passed, and I've had the unfortunate opportunity to become accustomed to this ugliness, I'm finding that there is a small but quiet change happening within me.

I still feel the ugliness inside of me. I am still angry.

Yet I have discovered some beauty. Not in my hair, and not in the bags under my eyes, but in the kindness and compassion of my friends, in the generosity of my family, the love of The Husband. Sometimes I have to remind myself that it is not always so ugly. There is that ugliness inside of me, but there is also a nugget of something not quite so ugly hiding out in there.

Obligatory New Year's Post

Happy not-quite-so New Year!

So let's talk. I'm not making any resolutions. For 2019, my only resolution was to read 4 books a month. I was doing really well and keeping on track for the first half of the year.

Then this happened. I hate to admit it, but recovering from brain surgery, a second brain surgery, chemo, and radiation, all things that were completely out of my control, completely derailed my progress last year, and. If you must know, I would much rather have spent 2019 reading books, teaching, writing, anything besides have cancer.

Because cancer sucks.

So, no resolutions. Instead, I am going to look to someone who really inspires me:

Be water, my friend." Bruce Lee

Before I talk about Bruce Lee, I want to talk about 2019. 2019 was objectively and undeniably the worst year of my life.

Of course, there were bright shining sparks through the year.

• My 10 year anniversary with The Husband. 
• Having a student contact me long after the semester was over to tell me he was inspired to teach because of my class. 
• Reconnecting with the instructor whom I consider as the source of my own inspiration to teach.
• Making real and deep connections with students, including the dual enrollment high school kids, the non-traditional students like the single mom with two jobs or the Navy veteran who was so excited to finally use his GI Bill, I got to connect with students who were poets, musicians, painters, theologians, and photographers. I also made connections with students who had the STEM-mind and could engineer marvelous (and mysterious to me) projects. 
• These two clumsy goofballs who have learned the fine art of snuggling when the baby sister weighs ten times more than the older of the two.

 

 

• This ornery old man who brightens my day (and some nights) by patting my nose and singing the songs of his people (usually not simultaneously).

Of course, I could keep going, listing all the ways that 2019 was actually not that bad, but then I remember this.

I can sit here and say that being diagnosed with a particularly frightening type of cancer was a blessing in disguise. I can sit here waxing poetic about the amazing life lessons I've learned, the peace I've found, the acceptance that washes over me.

I would be lying.

This is not a blessing. Cancer is an a-hole. Not only is cancer an a-hole, but it strikes without discrimination. Cancer does not care if you are a good or bad person (I'll let you decide which one). Cancer does not care if you haven't fulfilled your life goals yet. Cancer does not care whether you deserve it or not. Cancer does not care if you had other plans.

I am not making resolutions for 2020 because the most important thing I've learned is that even if I make a plan for the near or far future, there is simply no way to know if I will be feeling well enough to actually follow through on the plan. I've already had to last-minute cancel plans with friends on multiple occasions because of the fatigue, the nausea, or the bad mood.

So, instead of making plans, I will try to be water. Yes, that means that I will do what I can to go with the flow. However, I do not want to be misunderstood. I have had to remind some people of my boundaries. It should not be forgotten that it was water that carved that giant hole in the ground. The Husband was very brave to get so close to the edge and I was terrified that he would fall into the Grand Freakin' Canyon and no there was no possibility that I would be joining him that close to the edge are you crazy?*

Look at that sexy beast!

What was I saying?

Oh yeah! It was water that carved that giant beautiful hole in the ground with The (Not Yet) Husband in front of it, and I want to be clear in communicating my boundaries yet again. Water can flow or it can crash. Be water.

*I realize that was a run-on sentence, and that I should have better grammar as an English Instructor, but I argue sometimes it is more important to communicate your point efficiently, even if doing so is technically incorrect.**

**Also, don't get me started on the use of standard grammar vs. non-standard grammar, and how people are judged by how articulate or inarticulate they may be. The use of so-called proper grammar has a time and a place, and sometimes the point is more clearly articulated by slangin' it up.