Less ambiguity

Yesterday, when I wrote the post immediately below, the day after I got the good news, I was terribly tired.

Being terribly tired has not been unheard of here; perhaps it’s been a more or less regular occurrence. But it took me by surprise; I expected bursts of energy, sparkly, perky eagerness to bounce and bound around. 

One can make sense of it; a collapse into relief, a sudden (pretty much unconscious) evaporation of death-bound tension leaving me limp: these and many more like them would suffice as explanations. But I was surprised, nor was it a happy sort of surprise; but it did serve to remind me that progress toward a satisfying resemblance to health would be slow; perhaps, at least occasionally, difficult; and perfectly reasonably, challenging. After all it’s been a long time since I could be described as healthy; a year or two before the diagnosis of cancer at least.

We press on (as strength allows).

The News

The doctor said I am free of lymphoma.

No more chemo.

No more expectations of impending death.

Strength and vitality will return,

Body mass, too.

I will be able. 

Romantic

I came smack up against a surprise yesterday.

I had received and enjoyed an opportunity to flirt on facebook.

In itself this would have been a most unlikely surprise.

To heighten the unusual and unusually pleasing quality of the event, the woman who chose to find me beautiful and to flirt with me was a woman who can claim distinction as her right, at least as I count distinction. She is a poet, a writer, a journalist, and an academic. She excels in these roles.

To begin with I reminded myself it might be a joke or a game, that I ought to take care not to believe flattery too quickly; and for me, her interest alone was extravagant flattery. Still, neither does resisting the pleasure seem very much to the point. So a see-sawing, trapeze-swinging oscillation seems the best strategy: Enjoy it, with reminders frequent or not, to take care.

So it went over the weekend. Light-hearted, warm, and frequent, with lots of X’s and O’s. It was, well, a little exciting, at least on the surface. Beneath, I suspect my excitement ran pretty deeply. She is the sort of woman I might hope to have for a close friend; (as the diligent reader may discover, elsewhere in these blogs I describe sex growing smaller in my rear-view mirror). So at present a close friend is my dearest wish when thinking of women. Which translates into the flirtation carrying more power than one might reasonably suppose.

But then...

I had taken it seriously, and began to be afraid it would turn out badly; as, depending on the definition, it may yet. So, the diagnosis was cold feet. I begged off, pleading illness, which was true, and took a nap. When I returned to the page, she seemed to have taken up flirting with someone else.

I was, so to speak, crushed.

And so things remained until this morning: There she was, friendlier than ever, and so our back-and-forth continues; to what end, Heaven only knows, though I expect when she has absorbed the extent of my destitution, she will wisely and gracefully withdraw.

too late

I’ve been afraid of old age for a long time. For a while it was simply mourning the loss of lovely smooth flesh, seen in my parents and later in their retirement community. The grotesque folds, wrinkles, discolourings,  and abraded-paper effects dismayed, appalled me. I felt no threat personally but I regretted all the lost beauty and inevitable ugliness.

There was a period of unease as I saw such things impending, even wondering about the patterns the wrinkling might take; but fearing most the effect on women I might hope to befriend. That (failed hopes for friendships) went on for a lengthy period, but I seldom thought my flesh was the repellent at work. There was such a feast of causes from which to choose. There seemed at times very little health in me; nor was there.

Then I met a Someone. She seemed very funny (the dimples! the dimples!), seemed to know a lot, with unusual, interesting tastes, followed me home, said she could talk theology for hours, and when I took her to visit my folks she wreathed my mother’s face with smiles by tying her shoelaces, and rubbed balm into the ruined flesh of my father’s arms. Oh, and I nearly forgot, very cute and strikingly beautiful, with flesh in most places rivaling the proverbial baby’s bum. Her breasts were perfect too. We were engaged by midsummer, as soon as the divorce papers came through (my ex-wife had been pushing for a divorce for perhaps seven or eight years). We had bought a house with “potential, potential, potential”. Obviously I never need be concerned again with the anerotic effect of my figured flesh. (I suppose I haven’t mentioned, because I thought it must be obvious; we were head-over-heels in love.)

Once the mood had shifted, by perhaps 182 degrees (see accompanying blog  Bitterbuoy)  the issue of my decadent flesh did come up, unfavourably. 

Now it makes no difference at all. When the woman I (still) love pushed me out of bed for good, sex lost its overwhelming appeal, and seemed to grow smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror. If I haven’t been quite clear: My lost love is still the only one who might be able to stir my loins, but only if she, say, kissed me, say, on the mouth; and scrupulous and particular as she became about our physical contact, I feel I can safely say: That will never happen. 

 

HEREWITH Ta-dah; the resuscitated suinolopxilef, awaiting his chemotherapy graduation certificate and not yet knowing his GPA, goin’ all buggy (as in ‘normal’) waiting for the results.
First, there’s a CT-Scan next Thursday, followed on the 25th by a heart-to-heart with Dr. Davidson at St.Joe’s.
Y’all stay tuned, y’hear?