Bookcases are up and we’re sorting, trying to come up with a better arrangement than “yours, mine, and ours.” I’m tired. I’m a little worried about how tired I am. Moving is stressful, but this seems like a preternatural weariness, accompanied by weepiness. Depression? I don’t think so. I would be dashing around, feeling quite happy, if I had the energy. My consulting physician just ran some tests and I’ll see her tomorrow, so maybe that will shed a bit of light.
Do I want this blog to be a report on my health? Not really. But it’s all a tangle, my writing life, emotional life, physical life, and my thoughts and reactions. Words for aspects of the same thing.
I have my one-year CT scan and X-ray June 3. On June 12, I see the oncologist to hear the results. Of course this fatigue concerns me. Of course I’ll spend the rest of my life with the cancer-cloud just off in the horizon. Will the wind dissipate it? Or will it crackle up a thunderstorm? I think what it was like NOT to have that cloud, what it was like to believe on some level that I’d live forever. This situation feels more real, for better or worse. Feet on the ground. That was an illusion. Floating.
Yesterday my aunt Jan died in Colorado. Also, yesterday evening my 96-year-old father had a spell of forgetting where he was. There’s other illness and disability in my close family. Old friends are having heart attacks and dying of cancer. This is the age, right?
We’ve just moved into this glorious space. I can see forever out the window. Right now sun is pouring in. We have two great restaurants three floors below, plus a gallery and other shops. We have walking trails. Good neighbors. We don’t have to shovel snow or take care of the exterior—the progress of age for those of us lucky enough to afford it. Yet I feel deep sadness. Not sure why. Simple exhaustion (emotional/physical) ? Maybe. Giving up our lovely little house? I don’t think so. Selling a lot of our belongings? I kept the things crucial to me.
I’ll keep you posted on this. I’ll bet you’re already thinking, well, sure, it’s [fill in the blank]. Easy to over-analyze. All I know is that it’s what I feel. Plus joy. All mixed up.
I got so far from poems I wondered if I’d be able to write again. I’ve been reading them, as a way to re-enter that territory where one sees into rather than looks at. Where one looks at and feels the texture, the shape, rather than the surface shine. Where one runs out of words but puts them down anyway in a kind of holy despair. Holy in the William James sense—transient, ineffable, noetic, and passive.
I start a poem. Penney’s calls to say the blinds we ordered are not available right now. That’s three phone calls, to decide what to do. Then Jerry hopes I can at least suggest which books to get to next in the shelving process. Ah well, things will settle down. Or not. Nothing to do but be here, in the muddle.
Meanwhile, I’m into hair evolution #4. Gray, darker gray, light brown, dark brown. The authentic gray was pretty, but I felt washed out. This dark—which is close to where it was before I lost my hair—now feels artificial. I think I think I’m on the trail of what I’ll like best, somewhere between the two browns.