October 2008

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Sanctuary

I have some places around the house I love to be. They are my sanctuaries.

One place is upstairs off our master bedroom. I’ve set up a simple meditation table. I sit on the little couch in front of it and light a candle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Another sanctuary is the patio that my husband and I built in 2005. Well, he did the engineering and brick-setting, and I helped lift 1000 square feet of concrete bricks. It was grueling work. But now this is a lovely spot, especially in the summer when I plant flowers around the perimeter and the fountain is trickling. This is where I worked through the shock of this stage IV cancer diagnosis.

 

A third place I love is on the couch where I curl up sometimes to rest under a cozy blanket. The dog hops up and settles in behind me, and sometimes the cat joins me too. Here they’re both piled on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I also gravitate to my daughter’s old room, which is now my art studio. This is where I let my creativity flow and see what happens. It’s a room of mystery and discovery.

And . . . my most important sanctuary, of course, is the one within. We all have this resource, this internal oasis. Wherever we are, we can settle into a sanctuary of peace and healing love.

This inner sanctuary is my steady communion with the source of life. Sinking into this inner sanctuary, for me, is settling into a beloved space and dwelling in acceptance, wonderment, and gratitude. Any emotion that comes up — or no emotion at all — is okay. Speaking is okay; so is chanting, singing, and silence (my preferred state, being a contemplative). A pet jumping into my lap and curling up for a nap is okay. It’s all okay.

Sanctuary is a safe place, a haven in the midst of the tumult that cancer often brings.

Midway

I’m halfway through chemo – six rounds done, six to go. I should be wrapping chemo up around January 2009.

In the meantime, I am prepping today for a colonoscopy tomorrow. The oncologist told me just because we’ve taken care of one malignant site doesn’t mean there might not be more in there. So tomorrow morning my surgeon will take a good look at my insides again.

I am truly grateful for good health care and for alert physicians. But having a colonoscopy during chemo is a little tough. I am feeling the cumulative effects of chemo now – some loss of balance, shakiness, fatigue, and the ever-present neuropathy in hands and mouth. Today I am fasting and will be drinking the vat of liquid this evening for internal cleansing, which will leave me even shakier.

Oh, and a mammogram on Friday. I know these tests all vitally important. That’s why I’m having them done.

Still . . . all I want to do is curl up in bed and rest, so I will do that this afternoon. Weariness and gratitude coexist here.

Outside my window, the temperature is dropping and the wind is up. Leaves are sailing off the trees like snow.

And now thunder is booming. Lovely.

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A wink in time

Yesterday was Sunday. I woke up exhausted. Managed to read the Sunday paper. Cliff made pancakes for lunch, and we got the dishes cleaned up.

Then I just sat still at the kitchen table, head resting on my hand, and told Cliff I needed to go upstairs and work on some art homework my teacher had assigned. He looked at me and said, “No, you need to rest.”

He helped me upstairs and tucked me into bed, and there I slept for three hours. It was the best three hours ever. I was so tired.

When I finally woke up, Cliff and I put together dinner. Then I moseyed on up to my art studio (aka, my grown daughter’s bedroom) and worked on my art homework.

I will finish the assignment this morning before my IV infusion appointment.

Thank goodness for perceptive spouses who help us set aside our self-imposed schedules and get the rest we need when we need it.

Chemo round six begins tomorrow.

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The creative pull

I’ve always loved art but have been overly conscious of producing bad art. My mother was an accomplished artist. My daughter is an accomplished artist and art teacher. I am just a dabbler, especially skilled at producing unmemorable pieces.

But things have changed. No, my art hasn’t improved. But I am faced with a serious diagnosis.

And I no longer care if I produce insipid art or stupid art or never-let-this-picture-see-the-light-of-day art.

I just want to paint.

So I have taken over my daughter’s old bedroom, set up an easel and some tables, and used a birthday check to buy some saturated, lovely acrylic paint.

With my annoying inner art critic silenced at last, I am having the time of my life. And the creative energy is carrying over a bit into the rest of my days, helping combat chemo fatigue.

I have discovered this little outlet of pure joy, and it is feeding my soul.

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