chemo, shmeemo.

This is my husband, Daryl. He recently had a lobe of lung removed with a stage 1B cancerous tumor. Luckily it was caught early. As a “precaution” he has been “advised” to undergo a few sessions of lovely chemotherapy. I captured the first real smile from him during a walk outside in glorious weather (he didn’t have much energy to do the walk in the first place).

We both know of the fragility of life, but we also realize there are much more difficult struggles and battles waged by this vicious disease by so many. We never realized just how prevalent and destructive it is.

As a “survivor of second-hand” chemo (my term for those that sit with chemo patients during infusions), I empathize with those that deal with loved ones. Your day to day struggle is real as well.

Never underestimate the power of that smile.

unforgettable.

Happy New Year 2016! So Natalie Cole died today. At 65, this velvet throated song goddess fell off the face of the earth. Apparently plagued with health issues for months. Years. She “succumbed” to them and just left.

I obsess about death more often than most. I’m thinking that’s how it works. Born in a minute or two. Dead in the same. I mean the process of death can linger longer, but the actual act of dying is minutes. Seconds. 

Seems somehow trite that we get this seemingly expansive chunk of time to work with. Time enough to pay bills. Fix things. Fix a few people. Create relationships. Drink coffee, beer and maybe wine. And sometimes we get to sing. 

Mortality at my age is looming. Not on my lap mind you, but certainly in the same area. It’s like he’s staring at me from the very back of a doctor’s waiting room. Like a toddler who stares at a man with one leg. It’s cute. Innocent almost. Then easily distracted by a sudden burst of laughter or a bag of peanut M&Ms. 

I often feel the need to constantly throw mortality a bone. A carrot. I’m always tirelessly thrusting images of me evolving. Growing. Learning. Of not just sitting on a sofa waiting to go. I subconsciously (or quite purposefully) want Le Morte to forget about me. Skip over me and move on to someone else.

And then I see. He does.

This time.