This little cove on The Big Island is such a healing, gentle place. I am at the beach now, the sun is out, and the colors of the water are stunning — a soft sea-glass green, aquas, turquoise, then a deep calm blue and lavender farther out. The sand seems to glow with the warmth of the light. The vegetation is vivid green, and the flowers are brilliant. I plan to sketch palm trees today in their tall grace. Birds are singing; I think they are mostly house wrens, although there are three brightly-colored parrots near the cafe with their wings clipped, I believe. They seem to resent their captivity greatly and shriek like chimps. There are a few half-grown cats near the cafe also — probably from the same litter — and diners feed them scraps. I saw one of these graceful kitties on the beach last night from our lanai on the fifth floor. Maybe the parrots are watching those kittens grow up beneath their tree and getting nervous.

The water is quite warm and we go in almost every day, although I tend to list to the left from the effects of brain surgery. I can do a sort of frog paddle/breast stroke with splayed fingers. It feels good to swim and the cove is usually calm.

Of course, surviving cancer isn’t about not “giving up.” If that were true, we’d have a lot more survivors. Sometimes the body just can no longer deal with the invasion or we run out of medical options. One of the hardest things for me to consider is that I may have outlived my usefulness on earth. Hopefully some more physical therapy will help my hand. I am keeping up with my hand exercises here. My neurosurgeon said the brain takes a long time to heal. And patience — especially with myself — has never been my strong suit. So we will see how this year goes. Hope there are not too many errors in this post typed with one hand.

A couple of weeks ago I was told that I might only have 3-6 months left if I chose no more treatment. That’s when we decided not to postpone our vacation plans further. And we also decided go ahead with the laser brain surgery. Because in spite of all the problems in our world, it is still a beautiful world and I am not ready to say good-bye to the lovely outdoors yet. Or to my loving and beloved family and friends.

Escape Plan
Let me leave the sounds of this hospital drone,
Set myself safely on the path to home.
Ain’t got a car, but get me a hoss,
Lift me up and toss me acrost.
Together we will trot the trail
Through the crick, beneath the hail,
Ending up at my front door
Away from the medics forevermore.

Yeah, we have some ranching in our ancestry. And I may be losing my mind. But Audrey “double-dog dared” me to print this. I don’t really know what that kind of dare is, but I have two dogs, and I stand by them.

It bothers me that this stuff is down there. I don’t need stuff. For instance, the crepe maker I used to use when I was in my twenties has been idle since the children were born. The kids liked more middle-of-the-road food, not anything adventuresome. And when they were little, I no longer had the time or energy to make crepes from scratch anyway.

My older child is 29, so the crepe maker has been sitting down there for about that long. All these years, someone who loves to make crepes could have been using it. The crepe maker is going to charity, to a new owner.

There are many more things, no longer useful to my family. I have begun cleaning them out, and it is so gratifying. Getting rid of the literal junk in my life makes me feel like I’m getting rid of some of the emotional weight also. Because hanging on to this stuff — these things — takes energy.

It scatters me. Every day I walk on the first floor of our house, above all this stuff in the basement. I know it’s there, underneath my feet. I want it gone.

A couple of weeks ago, I braved up and took one of my girlfriends down there, daring to expose the mess to someone outside the family. This really helped me. She was very kind and didn’t act shocked. Facing my inadequacy and sharing it with a friend was what I needed to get myself going. She was also cleaning out her basement, and she understood. We were determined to do something about the “stuff” in our lives.

So now it’s down to the basement to face the spiders and dust … and to dispose of the unneeded paraphernalia of my life. These things will have a new life with people who do want them.

I feel very peaceful; I hope others do too. The date is now 1-1-11. I hope it is a good and healthy year for everyone.

Soon I’m going to share a poem on this site that I wrote four years ago after my mother’s death in 2006, and I don’t want to forget to do that.

But not now. Now is for enjoying this moment and reveling in it. I was not supposed to live this long, and I am here…and am grateful for every day as well. Welcome, 2011.

Peace to you.

And not wishing to be dramatic about it. After all, it is smaller than it was three months ago. We’re going in the right direction.

Let it go, let it go, let it go.

Molly helping.

Resting after the big dig.

Barking softly but carrying a big stick.

After conquering the garden hose.

Sooo, tomorrow I go in for gamma knife brain surgery. No cutting, just lots of laser beams aimed into my head, killing whatever is at their point of intersection — in this case, the metastasis in my cerebellum.

I will be able to go home the same day. Brain surgery has come a long way.

On a happier note, we are adjusting to a new puppy in our household. Molly is a ten-week-old golden retriever. She joins Jesse the bichon and Romi the cat. The housetraining is a pain, but she has given us many laughs during the two weeks we have had her.

Molly and pals

Our cat likes dogs, so that adjustment has been smooth. Jesse the bichon was not too sure about Molly for a while but is playing with her now.

Also fun: Cliff and I just got back from visiting the elementary school where our daughter teaches art. They are having an all-school art show this evening, and we were very impressed with the kids’ artwork. Our son showed up too, so the family was all together.

On brain surgery eve, all is well in our household. And Romi the cat is at the keyboard, supervising my writing.