checking in - a hard slap in the face

I started thinking this morning, "what good poem would people like to read today." Then, I slapped myself hard in the face. What am I thinking? If I make this blog about "entertainment" or writing for the benefit of readers, then it's value to me will be lost. It will become just one more in a string of behaviors designed to win others' approval. Oh, I remember keeping a diary around age 13, and trying to be witty, in case anyone found it. I very much need to forget an audience here, as this journey may, indeed, get difficult, and, as I have already discovered, this blog may be a lifeline of sorts.

So...will I succeed at forgetting the audience? Guaranteed, I will fail again and again and again. If you scroll down to the bottom of this page, you will see how many "visits" this blog has achieved since August 15, when I installed that bit of wizardry. At least, I am keeping that number public, so that it will not become a secret little obsession for me to check every hour...we all can see it...nothing hidden. (and my own visits don't count, thank goodness, or I'd be tempted to log in over and over to get past the next milestone... sheesh) Truthfully, if I didn't want an audience, I could have just as easily downloaded some "journal" software, or there might even be that template already on the computer I use. OK, so I am a bit of a hypocrite. Truth is, I want people to keep reading...somehow it feels like support for the tough times to come. And, it does make me feel cared for. In some unusual way, it has made all this so much more bearable. So...I just have to not let that become the primary driver here. Already, there are times I feel letting on when things are difficult will disappoint you. I will SLAP MYSELF HARD for that thought. (And don't say..."don't be so hard on yourself!") I started writing this thing to process my feelings and maybe go a little beyond that.

Then, the realization that my writing will soon enough begin to bore people hit me. After all, how much..."poor me, I hurt" will people really choose to put up with? So I had this thought...what if I did this for a whole week, and nobody showed up? How embarrassing!! Then, for a third time I slapped myself. I am doing this for ME!!!
When will I fully get that? Maybe later...enough of this.

Here's what I want to get to if I can stop rambling. Each day for the last three days, I have had to "inject" myself via the stomach tube feeder with 60ML of water,(probably about a half a cup) just to keep the thing flowing, or clean, or whatever. After a little apprehension the first night, I found it is easy to do, and painless. But what I wasn't prepared for, was the wave of despair that followed that act. I hate it. I hate feeling that this is what has become of me. Last night, I wanted to disappear. I want to stop this whole thing, and I am still two days away from my first day of radiation and chemo. I want to be traded to a different team. How about the team that has hay fever. I'll even take the team that is allergic to milk products, and has to play in a hot climate. Just get me off of this thing... I want it to stop and I haven't even started.

It has come like a bad wave, and it briefly washes all the deeper things out to sea. I just feel so damn sad! And then, it passes...last night, as I was in the midst of that, I reached over to my night table by the bed, where I always have a stack of books and magazines on the verge of toppling, and I picked up a book of poems by Naomi Shihab Nye...who always lifts my spirits. She is amazing. Here is the poem I read, and it lifted me out of my funk...I'll tell you why, before you read it...the poet admits to her own failure to live by the lofty ideas expressed earlier in the poem. It made me smile. (me...I write this blog without a care or thought of the reader...HA!) And one smile was enough to pull me out from that undertow that was pulling me into a sea of sadness. One real smile. Once again, I thought, it's going to be OK. That first line is great. It doesn't take much to save my life...just one really good phrase.

Here's the poem:

The Problem of Muchness

One thing does not lead to another,
it leads to everything.

Days as pennies, grasses, tidal swells of speckled distraction,
and how could you waste time, really?
What did it mean to waste time?

If you stared at a soft beam of light crossing a floor,
was that looking wasted?

The concept of "catching-up"
felt troublesome, too.
Catch up with what?
The yellow Post-it notes strewn across the desk?

I tried never to rush, never to think of more than one thing
at any given moment.
Ha.
While brushing hair I remembered unsent letters.
While feeding the cat I saw weeds wagging their tongues.

----------Naomi Shihab Nye-----------