Sunday, December 7, 2014

Let’s get lost

Rainclouds over San Jacinto
I have thought for a long time that when all is said and done, I would like my life to “add up to something.” And those four words used to mean something, though I can't say just what anymore. I don't mean a CV or resume-style summary of my professional life, which used to be enough for a job interview. (What job would I be applying for now anyway? Good question.). I don't mean an obit page wrap-up either, or a Ralph Edwards This Is Your Life portrayal. So I know what I don’t mean, but whatever I do mean, the idea won't go away.

Maybe this is just a long way around to saying that I've begun to resist being a cancer patient. My days have become increasingly organized around that identity: the MRIs and daily meds routines, the appointments with doctors, the chemo and its side effects, the regime of exercise, physical therapy, meditation, and relaxation videos, while staying positive and getting enough rest. etc. 

Cancer consumes one’s waking hours and leaves little time for simply living what's left of life. Neglect anything on that list (which I do), and I feel like I'm not doing all I can to flourish as long as I can. I know, it may seem more than a bit like the thinking of a workaholic.


Desert "downpour"
Lately, when I put this all out of my mind, I find myself gravitating to what Ill call “unfinished business,” a choice of words that sounds too much like work again, but thats the best I can do. Yesterday I spent an hour clearing clutter from the garage for the trash and recycling bins, knowing that I have many more hours of this to go. Instead of borrowing new books to read, I work my way through the unread ones that have been sitting on my shelves for years, mentally flagging the ones to box up and send off to friends someday.

Meanwhile, I have another MRI on Monday and see the oncologist on Wednesday. I started on an antidepressant that the pharmacist says should show results in two weeks. I believe that means Im supposed to begin feeling normal again, but I've begun to forget what normal feels like. So who knows?

On YouTube I stumbled upon a Tibetan chant of healing by the Dalai Lama for his ailing Czech friend Václav Havel (listen here), and I feel delivered for a while from the work of being a cancer patient still wondering about the purpose of his life. And lest I forget as I write this, thanks to all who stop here each week, especially for the comments left. You make my day.

So life goes on. 

And, of course, for both diversion and illumination, there’s still jazz to remind us of living life spontaneously and joyfully. Perfect choice this week suggested by a reader, Chet Bakers cheerful love song, “Lets Get Lost.”



Any other readers with jazz favorites of their own, links to them are welcome. 

Previously: Drifting


14 comments:

  1. It is so easy to lose "normal." I am always amazed at how quickly it can go. Still reading. Your life has meant something to me.

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  2. There is no normal. Just go in the direction your instinct takes you.

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  3. I love that jazz number... I can see why the title and words appeal to you. Hang in there!

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  4. "Let's Get Lost" is also the name of one of the best jazz documentaries. In 1988 Bruce Weber did a 2 hour film about Chet Baker's life. He used film clips, photos, interviews to show Baker's descent into hell as a drug addict. Drugs ruined his looks and his talent. He died under mysterious circumstances. It's available on dvd.

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  5. You've been going through your cancer treatment for so long - it's like working very hard without any vacation. And it must make you feel rather dull. I know you and your wife are worn thin. If you could ake a little jaunt together - Yuma, Tucson? Just a couple of days' change. And take your camera. You take some beautiful photos. Rainclouds over San Jacinto is breathtaking. Don't you think our lives add up to something if we're remembered kindly by those who have known us? I'm counting on it - that's why I'm cordial to people and open doors for women who are probably younger than I am.

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  6. You're continuing to lead a wonderfully productive life whether you know it or not. You have, and continue, to touch (and change) all of us who read your words. Godspeed, friend. Your life adds up beyond counting.

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  7. I recommend this book, Ron. But only after you've read all the unread books in your house first, of course.

    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/But_Beautiful:_A_Book_About_Jazz

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  8. Getting caught up in the "medical" life can be all consuming. It is good to rebel a little.

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  9. I can't say anything that hasn't already been said here. I hope you can do what Karen suggests. In the meantime keep writing - your posts mean as much to us as we do to you.

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  10. Ron, I think you are more normal than you think you are. I "forget what normal feels like" most of the time in spite of having no reason to forget. Your organised routine is constrasting in a healthy way, the positives bringing up the rear and pushing the negatives out of the way. Resisting being a cancer patient is by itself such a positive sentiment. Your journal is a beautiful lesson for me.

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  11. Ron, your words over the years have given me cause to think or re-think, to laugh and to grin, to relish the past and your perceptions of its writers. Cancer is not the purpose of your life but a by-product that absorbs your attention and energy for now. I hope the Dalai Lama and the jazz masters fill you with a greater sense of purpose and peace.. .

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  12. Everybody, thanks for your kind and generous thoughts. Please know that I think of all of you often.

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