Light As a Sharp Object

The rain falls. It bashes down the daffodils. But oh how I love rain. So I forgive what it does to the flowers. And they will Spring back, I believe.

My life is evolving into something else, the shape of my days changing, for thanks be to some miracle, I am having fewer migraines. It was hard to even call them migraines, as if they were a plural, because life had become one long migrainoid event. Even today I do have something of the aquarium eye, but overall have had the longest reprieve in the past few weeks. My days can take a new shape. (I feel like a stiff newt dancing in a summer shower.) I still must avoid flat screen tvs in stores, staring at fluorescent lights, the beams through the Venetian blinds, light as a sharp object, but am able to do so. Somehow I am skirting the migraines.

When I feel anything coming on, I begin drinking copious amounts of water, because I suspect perhaps some of my pains are from a struggling gall bladder and so I try to help it by diluting the body. It would come as no shock to me that I have issues with bile. And gall.

There is the ongoing tragedy of the hundred year old trees being cut.
Meanwhile, the light falls. I mean the rain.

I have begun going to the gym. I am writing things, watching flowers work their way above ground. The mate has two job leads, one in New Mexico and one in Washington State, and meanwhile his current job goes fine, so we hang in.

My biological father may have cancer and in a week will come the appointment with the dermatologist which will tell us more. I lie awake at night thinking about this, worrying about this. His was not a fair life. How do some lives get so much suffering into them?

Yes, while I was there visiting with him in February, I kept thinking he had cancer, that on top of everything else he has cancer. There was a growth on his neck that had gotten larger. But as I sat there across from him, at the wooden table in the dining commons, I thought ‘If it is cancer maybe it is helping him, maybe it has stimulated some tremendous immune response that is helping him, alleviating his suffering, keeping the pain from his failing liver at bay.’

He has that phoenix liver…it rises from the ashes and renews itself.
And when someone is on their death bed why would you worry about a lump on the neck which looks like something an old log in a forest would grow? I am only dealing with this possible diagnosis of cancer because a man who has more lives than a cat, once again rebounded after his trip to the ICU, his days and nights of moaning delirium, after the doctors said to say goodbye, after the ministers had come. How much can this man, my biological father, creature from whom my own genes originate, survive?

I have to wonder. And in that wonder, is hope for the world.

Then again, who wants to lie awake at night thinking about these things? I suspect unpleasant thoughts sometimes prevent you from sleeping also. We have so many things thrust upon us now. So many things erupt and sprout from us, the mysteries and misfortunes abound.

As do the miracles.

Life itself goes on. Spring comes. My mother renews her contract with the earth. She will grow her garden Helios again, and if I am lucky, I will be there at some point to help dig, water, plant, weed, or harvest.