When I’m feeling sorry for myself (and yes, I do, sometimes) it’s usually prompted by a longing for the future I may not get to enjoy. Cancer has quashed my ability to imagine a life unfurling endlessly ahead of me --- an open prairie of possibility. Instead I must be content with small dreams of a more immediate future.
There will be a picnic next week on Sauvie Island in the periwinkle dusk to celebrate our 23rd anniversary. And as summer wanes, there’s the anticipation of Portland’s homey perfection in the fall. Quirky bungalows, their wide, welcoming front porches decked out with jack o’lanterns, corn stalks and chrysanthemums seem to beckon to passers-by to come in for cups of tea, slices of pumpkin or zucchini bread --- home made, of course, the ingredients plucked from gardens planted along the parking strip or wherever the summer sun happened to fall. The mat says, “welcome” and it is sincere. A bond of neighborly community forged and fortified during those carefree days lived outdoors on bicycles and skates in summer will serve well to ward off the chill of bleak winter days that might otherwise be spent in solitude. Come into my kitchen. Try my blackberry preserves, my cherries soaked in brandy. I’ll put the kettle on.
Sometimes I feel guilty for having cancer and not appreciating every moment of my life. I’m one of the lucky ones, after-all, a survivor. I ought to be acutely aware that I am living a second chance life. And yet, I bitch at my husband for his sins of omission, insignificant transgressions; rail at the ancient cat for puking on the just-cleaned rug; threaten the ailing poodle “dogs can be put down on a whim, you know!”
When I’m basking in a swath of time where I feel fine and can forget I have cancer --- even if it’s just a few distracted hours created by some absorbing diversion --- I become reckless and take everything I have for granted. But occasionally, usually as the day of my quarterly CT scan approaches, if I don’t feel well --- sore neck and shoulders, extreme indigestion (stomach cancer, what my grandmother died from, and didn’t my mother always used to say, “you’re just like my mother”)? The awareness of my mortality becomes acute and piercing. “Life is too short.” My mother used to always say that too.
Last night, mincing anchovies with my mezza luna, I had such a moment. The anchovies are a “secret” ingredient in one of our favorite recipes. I don’t eat them often and I only make this “Pasta Salad with Character” a couple of times a year. Perhaps, I thought, I’ll never make this dish again. This could be my last anchovy. Just then all my cares and worries fell away and life became very simple, very clear. I prepared the rest of the meal as if in slow motion, all of my senses heightened. Then we ate the salad with gusto accompanied by a tasty Gruner Veltliner and a lovely piece of grilled Alaskan halibut.
I awoke at four this morning with terrible heartburn and later went out to buy another tin of anchovies.
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