My phone rang at 9:30 this morning.
“Good morning. Is this a good time? ”
From the caller ID I knew where this woman was calling from and why she was calling.
“We have the results of your biopsy from Monday.”
“Poorly differentiated carcinoma.” **
“Thoracic will be calling you for appointment.”
What an awful job this poor woman has.
I can’t breathe.
I hung up the phone, grabbed my keys and left the house.
Driving down a familiar street, I saw a woman playing Frisbee with her dog in their front yard. Is there any more rapturous sight than a dog running and leaping into the air?
At yoga class, we did lots of open-up-the-chest-and-rib-spaces movements. I swear every time the instructor said, “Breathe in, open up the lobes of the lungs,” my poorly differentiated carcinoma lit up like ET’s heartlight, eager, defiant, and ready to differentiate itself. By breathing so deeply was I providing nourishment so this little bastard could get bigger, stronger?
In the white space between the lines of this post is a storm. Can you feel it? Probably not. It is huge and dark – a violent, roiling, churning monster waiting to take me under. I am alone and frightened in the vast, deep water. But I am an excellent swimmer. I will ride out the waves and swim where I can, as long as I can, until I am too tired to go on.
I will pick up my grandson from school, we will have a snack of Newman’s Own Cookies and play ‘Mater and Lightning McQueen with his Cars play set. I get to be ‘Mater. I love being ‘Mater.
I will breathe.
- every single one of Mary Oliver’s poems
- birthday cakes with white icing