the body writes back

p,

     Sorry it's taken so long to respond. It generally takes me some time to digest things. But you know that. Plus I can't hold a pen, no thanks to you. But I hear you. I feel you. You're grateful to me.
     I think you expect me to say nice things back, to embrace you for taking care of me. The truth is that you're often in my way. You never stop talking, for one thing, and it's annoying. Throughout our relationship I've told you when it's time to sleep, but you are not paying attention. The next morning, when I drag us both out of bed, you promise to listen next time. And then that evening, you force me to stay up late again, reading ever blurrier books.
     Or you promise to give me more oxygen, take slower, deeper breaths. That's all well and good for a couple of minutes, and then you're off onto something else and have totally forgotten me.
     As for all the surgery and chemo and whatnot you've done to me in the past couple of years,  I've tried to take it on the chin. Do what you think you need to do, but please have a little faith in me. Your ruminating doesn't help things.
     I sense that you blame me for the genes in my cells, and that I just can't swallow. I am doing my best here. I've healed over and over again, many more times than you imagine or remember. The cut on my shin? That's nothing. Being a body is like living with thousands of hyperactive children under one small and leaky roof. During the rainy season. I've got buckets everywhere, and also have to constantly pick things up and put them where they belong. This is not a complaint; I'm just saying. I did not pick my genes, and even if I had, almost all of them are fabulous. Really, p, sometimes you just focus on the bad. It's not a good habit.
     I'm loving the walks and the good food. Thanks for finding good smells, nice things to look at. We're both so lucky, right?
     Meditation? I guess that's good for both of us, although sometimes it reminds me of when you tried to teach me to pat my head and rub my belly at the same time. But I'll keep practicing if you will.
     The bouncing thing is pure pleasure for me, so thanks. Sorry about the leg cramps afterwards if you overdo it. Sometimes I don't know how else to get your attention. Just goes to show that we can really wake up fast if we have to, huh?
     Also, please pardon the furnace problems. I have my people on it, but it's a pretty old furnace, and eventually these things do break down. That sleeping naked on top of the sheets idea? Works for me.
     And you're right -- I don't care about the scarring and all that. Those are my artwork! Believe me, you want me to scar. It's one of my best tricks.
     Not as chatty as you are. Some of us have jobs to do. I'm only half kidding. Lunch?

one thing at a time

I am humbled to learn that I cannot bounce and laugh at the same time. 

correspondence with my bod

I've begun a little correspondence with my body. We're pen pals, like. I'm always so pleased to hear back from it, though it turns out to be snarkier than I am, which came as a total surprise, given that it "has its own wisdom" and all that. Here is how I began the conversation:

Dearest, most precious body:

     How I have loved these first 56 years we’ve had together. Most of it has been so easy, so miraculous and fun. I know you don’t have as much energy as you once did, and I am going to make you some promises about that in this letter. But by and large, you have taken such wonderful care of me.

     We had a great childhood together, didn't we? I cannot remember when you ever let me down. You were so perfect and so strong! Thanks for pulling me into all those trees, so easily. Thanks for all the freedom you gave me, and for the ego boost when I could armwrestle people like Jim Neilan. That was fabulous. 

     We’ve been through a lot together, especially in the past few years, and I wonder if it feels to you as though I have taken worse care of you than you have of me. I guess I have been exercising tough love with some of the decisions I’ve made recently, and I appreciate that you have met me with resilience and aplomb through these challenges. Though it is not over, I do hope we can move through this era soon and get on to the business of aging slowly and gracefully.

     How do you really feel about general anesthesia? You and I have been chemically separated for long moments several times now. I am not afraid of it, as I trust that you will come back to me and I will come back to you. I hope it is not difficult for you in ways that are real and undetectable to me. The anesthesia is meant to shield you, but I know you are more complex and wise than I can ever understand, and this being trumped by anesthesia must cost you in ways that also are beyond understanding – unless your wisdom even exceeds my imagination and you surrender willingly, easily, as the medicine courses through your veins. I want you to know that if it had felt possible to forego anesthesia and still protect you, I would have done that.

     You are in fact unbelievably cooperative. You respond to what I eat, taking it in and using it as well as you can, sending nutrients wherever they are needed. You heal quickly, still. I so appreciate that about you. You amaze me. I would like to learn how to let go and heal as quickly as you do.

     I have to tell you that you took me by surprise with the genetic mutation, even more so than the cancer. I know I’ve eaten things I shouldn’t have, and I know I should have gotten more exercise, especially when the kids were younger. I don’t know if that made it impossible for you to avoid the cancer, given the mutation with its crazy odds. I’m sorry if things like too much sugar or dairy or other white things made it hard to fight those odds.

     It cracked me up that the first thing that tasted good to you after chemotherapy was sushi. Touché! And so smart of you. I need the nutrients in fish. You are learning to like things that will help us stay together for a long time, and I am deeply grateful that some things that we need have begun to taste okay to you. Let’s work together on this.

     I hope operating on our thumbs is the right thing to do. I apologize for the related hassle. I know that arthritis came from our genes, too, and that neither of us could help it. I just got really tired of the pain. Soon we will be working on getting some strength back. Please do your healing thing and get stronger in these challenged places. I’ll try to stay focused on it, too.

     Heads up: our right thumb is in for the same brouhaha in a few months. I know it will not be expecting this, but I thought I'd let you know anyway.

     I know you miss our breasts. I do, too. Nothing fits you quite right, and I am sorry about that. I don't want to put you through more operations to give us phony breasts; it seems like that would be asking a lot of you. I guess maybe the breastless thing is my issue anyway, not yours. Please let me know if there are things you want me to do given the loss of nerves, of tissue, of bulk. Do you want me to be rubbing oil on that space? I am never sure. 

    I have to palpate around your pits and chest all the time, and I know that irritates you. But I need to keep checking up on you because of that genetic snafu. I want to trust you, but I can't. I just can't. I'm so sorry.

     Some other apologies here: so sorry about cutting your shin that first time I tried to shave. That was totally my fault.  Thanks for healing up, and for hurting enough to make me really cautious when I shave in that spot ever since.

     Sorry about all the chips, cheese, and other things that probably demanded more resources than I should have asked from you. I meant them as a treat for you, but it probably only felt that way for your tongue. Maybe I should write to your tongue, too. Anyway, thanks for the great metabolism despite my indulgences.

     You don’t want to try getting drunk, do you? I don’t. Let’s avoid that forever. I appreciate your being a lightweight.

     Sometimes it feels like you clutch, like it takes you longer than I would like it to for you to relax and quiet down. Examples, if you need them, are our lips and our brow, which keep going back to a smidgen of tightness when it is time to meditate or to sleep. Could you please let go of that, too?

     I am trying very, very hard to take good care of you. You’ve given up a lot, and you’ve been a brick about it.

     I know you saw that big package that came today. It's for you! It's a little trampoline, and you can bounce on it. You love to bounce, right? Enjoy it! And please get stronger.

     I would like to live with you for a long time, and I want you to be excited about that. I am thinking mid-90s would be great, unless our brain gives out. I hear you about the genetic challenge, and I hope you hear me about how willing I am to fight for you.

     I promise to make our health a top priority. This means I will attend to feeding you well, to continue to exercise regularly, to work in some strengthening exercise, to laugh often, to meditate, to work on the tasks that are mine to learn. I promise to be deliberate about giving you beautiful and health-promoting things to look at, to listen to, and to taste, feel, and smell.

     When we do part, know that I have loved you and appreciated you more than I know how to express. I will work hard at making my gratitude apparent to you through how I live and how I take care of you. Let’s laugh often. It’s so good for both of us.

Love and a scratch, wherever you need it,*

p

*Really sorry to put a caveat on this, but you've been kind of tight around the arms ever since the surgery on the chest. If you could loosen up a bit, I could do a much better job of scratching you. Maybe this is the original meaning of "I'll scratch your back, you scratch mine." What do you say?

P.S. Let me hear back from you! No rush; I know you can't write easily until the cast comes off. I'm not going anywhere. 

P.P.S. I did notice that you are still willing to build neurons for me, and that writing with our right hand has actually become legible sometimes. You absolutely ROCK for still allowing me to learn.
P.P.P.S. How could I forget? The beautiful babies you nourished, first inside you and then with milk? No matter what happens to us or when, you are perfect because of them.

my little drum

Wandering around after lunch at the writer's conference last month -- that uplifting event where an agent would help me finally understand that cancer books are non-selling downers -- I walked by a little sign that invited people to read a segment of their writing into a microphone. Some would get published in the Drum Literary Magazine. Oh, why not, I thought. I followed the signs into the recesses of the hotel, still fishing lunch from the recesses of my gums.

What should I read? I had only one minute to decide. I pulled out the chapter about Dr. Gao, from the doomed "Flat 'n' Happy." You remember Dr. Gao? Here is his story.

Oh, don't worry that I say doomed. It really is okay. I am, in fact, flat, and I am, in fact, happy. Both things, given their alternatives, as I wanted to tell Dr. Gao, are so, so okay.

ouch

I had to wait a few days to blog about this. It's delicate, like when you've caught your sweater on a pricker bush, and if you move to extricate yourself, more prickers snag you. You have to move really, really carefully.

I don't want to make this worse. Laura and I have put in so much time trying to get unsnagged.

From May until October, Laura and I enjoy our vegetable garden. You know the drill: she does gross motor; I do fine motor. She plants; I tuck the tomato branches into the ladders as the plants grow. She waters; I weed. We both harvest and we both eat with the enthusiasm gardeners have for their own well-tended crops. Even if some years you only get twenty-seven peas, they are just the best peas you ever tasted. 

This year the pole beans Laura planted were especially enthusiastic, and the kale and arugula were growing like, well, like weeds. Beautiful, edible weeds. We had promising-looking tomatoes, basil, zucchini, peppers, lettuce, and several volunteer cucumbers and cantaloupe from the compost.

Aphids had found the young basil, which is fair enough. Every year as the garden begins we have to make a gentle but firm statement to the aphids. You can't blame them, but you can wash them down with organic soap and send them on their soggy way.

In the garage, next to the spray bottle of organic soap, is a spray bottle of poison ivy killer. It is anything but organic, but I will not mess around with that sorry excuse for a plant. Raised in the woods of Connecticut, I learned "poison ivy" when other kids learned "ball" or "doll." Huh. That just explained a couple of things to me.

Anyway, when a tiny blip of poison ivy appears on our property, I see it before it sees me. Oh, hell no, I say to it, usually aloud, and I walk to the garage. I am back in a moment with a spray bottle and my "make my day, p.i." face on.

On Sunday morning, in a multi-tasking rush to protect the basil, Laura grabbed the poison ivy killer instead of the soap. Just in case the aphids on the basil were feeling nomadic, she sprayed every plant in the garden. Once you've sprayed poison, you've got about five minutes to save a plant. But you could never eat its leaves or its fruit. And even if you washed off the plants in that tiny window of time, the soil is gone. You can't grow anything in it for a year.

The feelings we each have about this are layered like an onion, the one thing we kind of wished we had planted, but hadn't yet. Laura felt awful. Terrible. Even now, she is sighing in the background as I write because we both agree that it is time to blog about it, but there are the prickers, and they hurt.

She was angry at herself, and angry at me for being angry. I was puzzled that she could detect my anger, since I tried to be kind through my tight jaw. I guess it's hard to convey kindness, no matter the words you choose, through a tight jaw. I was angry. I knew how badly she felt, and I felt bad for her...but I still felt angry.

So we did what we are both willing to do when we need to. We talked (and cried) for hours and hours, then brushed and flossed (I could still floss for myself on Sunday), then talked for more hours. We talked about how underneath we both knew we were just going to miss the garden, but first we had to peel away all the other thick layers of feeling. We talked about the difference between a mistake and being careless, and which evokes what feelings in both of us. We talked about my fear of becoming intolerant of error like my dad, who was sometimes impatient with my more forgetful mom. We talked about our different ways of moving through the world, one with an eye on the beautiful forest, one noticing all the invasive species that are crowding out the native flora. We talked about how when she was young, having someone angry meant the end of conversation and connection, and for me being able to carefully express anger means the beginning of repair. We talked about how it scares me that she can get lost in impulse, and how it scares her that I can get lost in judgment. We talked about how great it is when our differences work, when our strengths complement each other. How great it often is that she favors the gas pedal and I favor the brake. How much fuel it sometimes takes, too.

It took us awhile, but we finally got to the shared, core feeling of sadness. The garden was trying so hard, doing so well. Each plant was happy to have been so carefully planted by Laura, right in the full sun and in the rich earth. It was to be my project when Laura moves to New York. I would tend it during the week and then harvest when she came home on weekends. The garden would link us when we were apart. I could report out in our nightly phone calls. "You should see the pretty peppers I'm going to pick when you get here!"

Laura and I work hard to keep our connection clean. Even with all that effort, relational gunk accumulates. When there is a crisis, even a little crisis like this, every speck of gunk absorbs three times its weight in difficult feelings, and you have to do a full, deep, steam cleaning. That she and I can do. We are still talking about the whole complicated process of losing our garden, whenever one of us needs to.

But the sweater is freed from the pricker bush, and though there will be other such hazards on our path, we are walking together in a beautiful forest. Even I can see that.