Another session confined in the metal tube, jackhammers and ferry horns blasting amidst an addled and chaotic percussion section, and then moments of blessed silence while the machine hums and the magnets realign for another round of cacophony with a side of claustrophobia.
I drift off worrying about a port inserted in my body…probably better than getting stuck all the time. I imagine a selection of doors as if consulting with the radiation-oncologist tomorrow were some sort of game show. Door number one? Go home, the cancer’s all gone. It was all just a bad dream. Door number three? Also, go home, but for a different reason—the cancer has spread and it’s inoperable. The nightmare is true. And my own favorite: the trapdoor that opens into a wormhole that catapults me to the planet Pandora where I am welcomed by indigenous Navi and live happily ever after in the Hallelujah Mountains.
“The images are confusing and inconclusive,” a caffeinated Doctor Monroe says from behind his personal protective gear. “Can’t say if it’s another spot of cancer or if it’s necrosis of the brain. Nothing to do but keep an eye on it and schedule you for another MRI in three months. Meanwhile we’ll switch you to Avastin infusions.”
So, it’s door number two. Same old, same old. With the added “bonus” of a port and a new drug. Ongoing hit-or-miss treatment. Ongoing confusion and uncertainty. Ongoing not knowing. Good thing I know how to practice not knowing.
What’s going on inside my brain seems exactly the same as what’s going on outside my brain: The reliability of the upcoming election (if it happens at all)? Confusing and inconclusive.
The COVID 19 pandemic? Confusing and inconclusive.
The future of our democracy? Confusing and inconclusive.
The future of our planet? Confusing and inconclusive.
When I tell Doctor Monroe about the trapdoor to Pandora, he says he hopes it will open up for him in early November if the election goes the wrong way. The woman in the bathroom at Lowe’s says she’s ready to be taken up by the rapture. It’s too crazy for her down here.
Maybe we all need a really big-ass trapdoor.
Maybe getting a port inserted in my body isn’t such a bad idea —
Maybe I can think of it as my own personal trapdoor.
A portal. Some kinda way outta here.
Whew–crazy times especially for you, but I am happy to hear your vivid story, keep learning from you (grace/rage/truth)–and comforted to know you will be at Dreampower Studio near Esperanza and Henry and the SLV sky. I love you. Thank you.
There is brilliant connectivity to conjoining pandemic, politics, planet and cancer. And inviting us to walk this woven web with you.
This Pandora portal to the Hallelujah mountains launched me some kinda way outta there into a brave new world where responsibility & misgivings sit awkwardly askance eyeballing me sideways at the table of love, family ne’er-do-wells, dreams of becoming and hope * ~ ) Happy holy days, dear people!!