Tuesday morning I was scheduled for my first cancer chemotherapy session. It was my first night sleeping alone in a hastily purchased twin-bed in our downstairs home office - something I stubbornly swore I'd never do. I would not turn the first floor of our home into a hospital suite. But I had a PICC-line put in and the nurses finally talked some sense into me (no small feat) about hoisting myself up and down the stairs with a catheter running the length of my arm and lodged in my heart.
I told my wife to set her alarm for seven a.m. to give us time to leisurely get ready in light of the disjointed situation. I was awake and saw the clock pass seven. I was sure I heard the radio in our bedroom turn on and then turn off. She must have hit the snooze button I thought. Seven-ten, seven-fifteen. We had decided to use the telephones which have an intercom feature for me to reach my family upstairs. I pressed the intercom button and listened for the ringtone. Nothing. I tried again. Silence. I started calling out. Calmly at first so no one would panic. Within five minutes I was screaming at the top of my lungs to wake them. All of a sudden I could hear voices and feet hitting the floor and stomping down the stairs.
My wife apologized profusely, she hit the wrong button on the alarm. I'm afraid, I was not very gracious and made a stressful morning even more stressful. We were in tears as we drove off. We travelled in silence for a while, then the thought struck me, why the hell was I in such a hurry? I turned to Shellie and said, "I guess only a fool worries about being on time for his own execution." I don't think she knew what I was talking about, but it broke the ice and we were able to share what we were each feeling.
Today is Rosh Hashanah - the Jewish New Year. In fact 5775 to be exact. The two-and-a-half day festival is celebrated with deeply devotional services from sunrise to sunset, followed by the feast. Chopped liver, gefilte fish, matzah ball soup, brisket, turkey, kishke, fresh challah, and all the trimmings.
This was one of my favorite holidays, where the family would get together to laugh and wish good wishes for the coming year. We emphasized the occasion with sweet wine and the first autumn apples dipped in wildflower honey.
For many years I have been able to attend less and less as the drive becomes increasingly difficult. My sister, as in "beloved," chastises me when I start to feel sorry for myself, but year after year, the garbage from the last year just follows over into the new as more garbage piles up in front of me.
Believe me, I get the whole positive-negative outlook thing. My son just told me a joke. He said, "An optimist sees a glass half full. A pessimist sees a glass half empty. An engineer sees a glass that's twice as big as it needs to be."
No one is a more ardent believer in love than I am. I express it in my posts. I express it in my comments on other people's posts. Love is at the heart of my writing. Love is why I endeavor to persevere.
I believe in miracles. There's no other explanation for my wife and I to have come together and remained together as lovers and soulmates. I always said I was so much in love with her that I wanted to shout it from the highest rooftop. Facebook's about the highest rooftop I could find, I guess.
And this is to say nothing of two fine sons, a dear daughter-in-law and four grandkids, one who is a month old.
No less dear to me are our four "girls," especially the black and white stink-fish-pot who bonded with me in vows of unconditional love, implicit trust, and mutual companionship till death do us part.
Every day I wake up in awe and thanksgiving that we get to live in this amazing house. I look around at our belongings, lovingly collected over a lifetime, and infinitely more so when our fall and Halloween decorations are on display. It is as if every stick of furniture and every ceramic piece were meant to be here.
I bask in the warmth of my family and online friends, and in the community to a small degree. A writers group at my local library has made me their cause célèbre; and Shellie and I have been welcomed like long lost sheep into the fold of a non-denominational church in our town. I think Pastor Michelle has made my salvation her mission. (She don't know me very well, do she!?)
Sometimes I am blindsided when someone tells me that I'm an inspiration to them, or that something I said or wrote about my troubles helped them through their own times of crisis. Boy, does that make it all worthwhile.
Lastly, I don't blame people for feeling sorry for themselves. There's a lot to feel sorry about. Health struggles, financial struggles (especially those brought on by health struggles), mental health issues (which often go undiagnosed and untreated), struggles within relationships, struggles with the law and an ever more intrusive government, bigotry, war, ignorance, greed, injustice, poverty, hatred, the deliberate poisoning of our planet, and evil running rampant over our world.
Feeling sorry for yourself is a good thing. It provides a retreat where hope and inspiration can flourish. Invariably, when you type "feeling sorry for yourself" into Google, the results are all self-help links to "snap you out of it in three to ten easy steps." I think this is wrong-headed. Feeling sorry for yourself is a natural reaction to stress. So go right ahead and throw yourself a pity-party. Who deserves it more?
Insert your favorite inspirational meme here
