The above title I stole from one of Pat's poems, that he wrote when he went through the first round of radiation and chemo. It orginally read "My brain is not large enought to destroy the entire world when unfolded" but I couldn't fit it all in the title space. The poem went on to describe the pain and anguish trying to keep his mind in check with all the chemicals from radiation, chemo, pain medicine, anti-anxiety medicine plus who knows? Throw in anti-nausea, and others to counter-act the other's side- effects and you have a pretty potent stew.

My sister's husband is also fighting cancer, he is on a pill form of chemo. He was recently admitted to the hospital because of chest pains. As it turns out he didn't have a heart attack, but all of his medicines were off- kilter. He is a diabetic with a plethora of other ailments on top of dealing with cancer. They kept him in the hospital a week and a half trying to get all his meds regulated. When he was finally home, he was very touchy, to say the least. On Thursday, my sister called home and she said he sounded drunk with giggles. The next day he was even less coherent. She thought he had a stroke, which is a side effect of one of his medicines. It was the weekend, but fortunately they had a friend who is a neuroligist who determined it was the nausea medicine. Apparently this same medicine is used for psychotics. Another few gray hairs and pimples for my poor sister. She has been dealing with one thing or another with her husband for about 10 years.

My mother is on her second round of chemo for lung cancer. When you speak to her on the phone she sounds like herself --very chipper. I'm 1600 miles away, and can't see her often. I recall Pat speaking to his children on the phone, while in the hospital minutes before the call,  he was writhing in pain to the point of crazy.  As soon as he picked up that phone he was able to maintain, in character, the picture of perfect health. He could have won an Oscar for that performance. So, while I was on the phone with my sister, after she re-counted the horrendous last two days she had been through, I asked how mom really was. My sister lives about 5 hours away and is able to see mom more frequently than I. My father is a co-conspirator in the "leaving-out-the-true-details" of their lives. She shared that the neuopathy in her legs ( a side effect of chemo) has slowed her down quite a bit, and she's puffing on her inhalers about as much when she waswhen she was smoking. I ask how her color is. My sister says she's gray. I had known that my dad had installed a chair lift on the front steps. But somehow I felt that was needed as a temporary thing. I'm realising I've created a rose colored rendition of reality, leaving out some details in my mind, myself. It's time to take a trip up there.

Yesterday, I wrote a poem about feeling nothing. That lasted until dinner time. Then in the arms of my man, I weeped. He said, "I know, I need you too."

Tomorrow He gets the Pet/CT scan and Wednesday we get the results. Is my faith faltering? No, how could it be when my man and our God who are in the midst of this battle are stonger than I?

The above painting by author.