somewhere beyond the horizon
Blog Page: 6/1/11
Find myself very much in the present—in the here and now—again today. My journals from 2007 through 2010 lay in a pile at my feet as I sit gazing out at my river.
Perhaps this moment—and every moment of my life—is the unfolding of the journey through breast cancer to wholeness? Perhaps this is what I came to do—to be—the why of my being here-now. Perhaps this me-now is the elusive purpose in being I eternally seek.
I’ve been brought to myself and to my Self; sitting and being in the NOW—in the present—and allowing the doing to flow seamlessly from the being.
For the second day this week, I am putting aside my current journal, ignoring the stack of old journals and picking up my legal pad and fresh Precise V5, extra fine pen: my writing tools. The Writer has awakened. I can feel Her stirring within. And She’s not here to begin another rewrite of my 19 year old unpublished novel. Nor is She here to add another journal to the closet full of the pain, pathos, joy and love documented by me for the past 38 years of my life.
I am pulled in this moment by an irresistible urge to put pen to pad and write for my Blog. The Writer within understands, even if I don’t, how my telephone conversation of just moments before has everything to do with the journey to wholeness witnessed in these blog pages. A journey that began some four years ago when I stood at that fork in the road: that juncture where the sign on the path that went off to the left read: Death, while the other path, pointing towards a long stretch of road to the right, bore a sign which read: Life. I know that The Writer knows exactly how this tale that I’m about to relate fits in perfectly with Her Purpose, Her Direction, Her Goals—in all of this “blogging”.
So, excuse me, journals from the past. Perhaps I’ll get back to you and perhaps I won’t. But right now—in this here and now—I must follow that gentle nudging from within.
I just hung up the telephone after talking with my make believe, godmother, E., a woman in her late 80s? Early 90s? I remembered that she had told me the other night that her sister, D., was in the hospital. I think D. must be in her mid-80s. Despite the fact that both women are friends of my mother’s whom I’ve known since childhood, I’m unsure of their ages because E. behaves as if the disclosure of a woman’s true age is a cosmic secret, the revelation of which, results in a long and painful death.
Anyhoo…E. had told me the other night that her 80 something year old sister had fallen in her home and broken her hip. The doctors could not operate for reasons I know not—don’t think E. knew either—and the doctors said that the sister would never walk again. What was unspoken—LOUDLY AND CLEARLY—was the likelihood that this was the beginning of her sister’s journey from the flesh to wherever.
Today I called E. to get her sister’s hospital telephone number so that I might wish her well. E. started in immediately telling me how bad the hip was, what bad shape her sister was in, how small and thin she was because she hadn’t been eating for months and her weight was now down to 80 something pounds, and, she added: as a matter of fact, there was something wrong with her heart and the doctors had wanted to do a procedure and she (D., the sister) said she didn’t want it done—it was something they put into her heart—but her daughter (E.’s sister’s daughter) told the doctors to go ahead and do the procedure anyway—so she (E.’s sister) just had it done…against her will! But then the doctors know best.
I NEARLY LOST IT!
It took every ounce of control I could summon to not scream and yell like a madwoman; the intensity of my anger—the seething I felt within—gave me pause. I breathed deeply and remained human…
“That is why,” I said to her calmly, “I have a living will. So that no one, not the doctors, my children or grandchildren will have my artificially sustained body—with all replaceable parts having been replaced—tubes hanging from every orifice—warehoused in the back wards of some hospital bringing in obscene profits to the U.S. Pharmaceutical-Medical Industrial Complex—perhaps for years—while they “prolong my life” with the latest drugs and gadgets created by white men in white coats in white labs.
“That is not life. That is not living and it was highly disrespectful of your sister’s daughter and her doctors to go against your sister’s wishes and desires as regards her own body and life. How dare they? Is it a basic deep-seated fear of the unmentionable: death—dying—that drives us to the ridiculous rather than let go of our loved-ones? We are going to die. Your sister is going to die. You are going to die. I am going to die.
“Perhaps if we changed our perspective, we could erase the fear of death. I respect the Life that is behind and beyond this living breathing body; that Life from whence my being unfolds. It decides when to leave this human form to travel on to I know not where. And when, for whatever causes, the miraculous systems and organs of this beautiful creation I call my body begin to break down, I will know that it is time to leave. I will know when the end of this mysterious journey has arrived. I will then gladly surrender this life to its rightful Owner: that which lives in, as and through this flesh form; and journey off to the next adventure in being. AND I WILL NOT SUFFER ANY INTERFERENCE BY ANYONE WITH THE START OF THE NEXT JOURNEY.
“So many of our rights are slowly being chipped away bit by bit—while we shop! Do we not have the right to die in peace? Or has that been placed in the hands of those who profit first from assaulting and destroying the human body with pharmaceuticals; and then by keeping it artificially sustained (they call it “alive”) for increasingly longer and longer periods of time. Do you realize the billions of dollars made from ‘prolonging life’?”
Before we hung up, my godmother, E., said to me in a very quiet, thoughtful tone of voice, “You know, you’ve made me see things from a different…”
“Perspective,” I said.
“Yes,” she answered.
Have I altered yours? Even a teensy-weensy bit?