woods ahead, from my window, 5 years ago
Anyone who has had cancer or has been around cancer survivors knows the connotation of reaching year five from diagnosis: You’re out of the woods.
It’s an informal, somewhat arbitrary milestone, like the seven-year itch, often given in statistics at the start of the journey: "This percentage makes it to five years."
Five years seems forever at the beginning of a diagnosis. And as you come closer, it taunts you to reach it, challenges you to succeed.
And once you cross over, you cool off and look ahead in a different way. You have made it here, but you are changed. You know you are mortal. You will inevitably find another challenge. But when, and where?
There will still be those damned, frightening, scheduled moments when you await the results of a blood test or scan. And the unexpected fear of a twinge that others would discount, and that you would have discounted five years before.
You cannot know. You cannot take anything for granted.
So you are grateful, so very grateful, to be able to pause. To rest. To remember those who did not make it as far and to concentrate on those who have.
You look back and hit the road with greater appreciation for whatever may lie ahead. You say silent and not-so-silent thank yous to many. You try to remain humble in your good fortune and good care. You intend to stay diligent.
You understand that it is no guarantee.
But you risk a hard-won smile.
_____
Woods
On a clearing’s edge,
Glancing back to thickets
Where air frosts, shadows
Blacken day, and
Night creatures
Scurry amid paths
Long hidden by decaying leaves.
You pause. Squint at the light.
Ahead, a silvery lake, or a mirage?
That stony path leads where?
You lean forward, afraid to find
Thick trunks,
Stinging needles,
Keening howls to thwart
Your solo journey.
Dark, dense forest within sight?
Perhaps not.
Perhaps a lone willow shimmering in a breeze.
Perhaps now, masses of perfumed lilacs.
LL
TIP:
Enter the amount, and click "Tip" to submit!
ccdarling
nilesite
cancerdancer
Liberal Southern Democrat
Emily Rapp
Nick Carraway
Salon.com
Comments
I want to express to you the joy of being alive and the love I have. Life is a gift and if you get a couple more chances well spread the love. And to those that do not understand I have nothing for you.
But to you my dear Lea I understand and I share my joy with you that you are alive and okay. Nothing but 100% love.
HUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG
r.
R♥
It will be ten years in April here. Twenty-three years for jlsathre–brass ring! So we keep on, keeping on.
It's sad, though, that woods have gotten the stigma they have. I hope you have no more journeys into the medical kind and plenty of interesting meanders through the nature kind.
Wishing you masses of perfumed lilacs, and alll the time in the world to lean into them and inhale...
Matthew 6:34
“Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.'
We die daily in a spiritual sense.
Then after the dark night skies`
Anger ebbs. We see bright stars.
`
Good and bad are often intertwined.
Matt Paust worries he's getting older.
Wiser . . . .
Sometimes we lose our belt to pants.
Sometimes we can't find our trousers.
`
You love a black man who wrote haiku.
Google `
`
Richard Wright.
He's deceased.
He wrote book:
`
- Nature Son
- Black Boy
-Black Power
`
He became sick.
Then he wrote.
He shared too.
`
Hw left a legacy.
- 4,000 haikus.
He got de' shits.
`
"Spin those poems out
of the gathering darkness."
`
He contracted amoeba dysentery.
In his illness - latter days he wrote.
He was angry and gloomy. Light.
Paradox. Dark/Light. Ay Beauty.
`
I hope this comment goes to you.
(And yes, Art. I gratefully got your profound comment.)
For you are an inspiration dear.
For all of us reaching those milestones in life, no matter what gets in the way..
Thank you...
I celebrate your five year anniversary. You deserve more time.
That's some fancy speechifyin' just for you, Lea.
Many, many more to you. :-)
But now, good riddance.
I'd be afraid to have a party, Ab. Don't want to jinx it.
I can't remember numbers so pretty good, but I think I passed my 12 year mark last summer. It's great when you forget about it, but yeah, you never really forget about it. That 'twinge' you mentioned. Yep.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T8YCSJpF4g4
Love, mhold
Lezlie
We just passed -- I certainly wouldn't say celebrated -- year one. The sad and ugly truth is that even if you win, you lose. Cruel as that sounds, the longer one survives with a terminal disease, the more one goes in the hole financially.
For instance, this morning we were told how lucky we are to only have to pay a $2000 co-pay for a $4,000 CAT scan. I suppose I should also be glad BCBS pays only $4800 of the $7200 cost of the Avastin my wife is taking every three weeks. By the way, that's the cost for the drug itself, not administering it, which is also considerable.
The nice lady who called from the hospital to give us the good news said that she realized this might seem unfair. I said it was beyond unfair, it was irrational, and that what was even more irrational was that sixty million Americans will vote for Republicans who want to make this sorry system even worse.
Now that I've got that out of my system -- I'm curious about your use of lilacs in your lovely poem. Lilacs, for all their beauty and heavenly essence, are a symbol of death, at least since Whitman mourned Lincoln with "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed".
The US health system sucks, and more. I am on Medicare, the one health care plan that seems to work in this country. I am blessed there and wish it were single payer for all.
As for the lilacs, I think I subconsciously chose them for their seductive, fleeting gorgeousness. The symbol of spring. Note the word "masses" as well. Hidden within the fragrant beauty is fragility and eventual change of seasons. But oh what a lovely moment.