Saturday, April 9, 2016

I had another cancer dream last night. They always leave me groggy and unsettled when I wake.

I had a little bit of cancer at Christmas time. They say they got it all, but my dreams still worry. 

In last night's dream, my stitches were growing out of my chest and belly like unruly old-man grey hairs. I was trying to tweeze them, but they were thin and wiry and moving like seaweed under the waves.

At the roots, where they crept through my skin, were tiny rivers of blood and Jon was angry with me for making them fester. I tried to cover the sites with bandages, but the stitches weaved their way up through the gauze, along with tiny patches of blood. 

The thing is, it's been almost 4 months, but my stitches are really still in there. They were supposed to dissolve, but my body always spits them out for years after any incision. I know this because these last two surgeries make 12 spots where they have cut at me. And when I run my hand over the scars, they are lumpy and pokey and sore. 

But they really did say they got it least for now. And I have been living, really living as deeply and honestly and creatively and thankfully as much as I possibly can. 

My mind moves slower, stays longer to meditate on the gifts that surround me. Jasmine's cheek. I touch it with the back of my hand and it is still as soft as when she was a baby. 
Music is ridiculously soothing, seeping into every part of me and making me whole. 
Fresh bread and butter and strawberry jam have changed my life.
And oh how I wish you could see the rain falling on the purple pansies on my porch right now, they're wiggling like happy puppies in a garden hose as they drink in the water.

People say, "it's the little things" and it's the truest of truths. It can be that the little thing is the worst of all things, a little bit of cancer. It could be the end of the world, and somewhere inside me, when I try to sleep, my body likes to tell me that.

But it's morning now, and joy comes in the morning. And I am awake now and in charge of my thoughts. And for this moment, I am thinking of my warm cup of coffee and my husband's silly morning hair and the rain outside that our dry land so desperately needs.