...Lace Up Your Gloves...

like a marred and tattered canvas - i stand
as if an unfortunate embodiment of an artist's satire
formerly known as youth and beauty

a road map of scars marks the long and winding roads of a journey
each one telling unspoken tales
and serving as a reminder of an uncertain future

the left breast - perfectly sized and eternally perky
nearly flawless but for the absent nipple
and the faded scar sweeping diagonally upwards

accompanied by tiny, nearly indiscernible circles
along the left side of the body where drains once existed
each mark whispering softly of a girl in her twenties

who had made mistakes - lost her way
and endeavored desperately to find meaning and hope
in what turned out to be the wrong places

the taut yet never impeccably flat abdomen seems a figment of the imagination
replaced by the still fresh marks left after removing traces of the demon
and the assurance of children never to be conceived

perpetual souvenirs of the ironically life-saving masses
that screamed for attention and started the whirlwind
that tested the body and soul once again

murmurs of a girl in the twilight of her thirties
who had taken the road less traveled still learning to heal scars deeper
than those able to be captured by a photograph or a paintbrush

untimely evolution of metabolism and elasticity
potentially unseen by observers
all too apparent to the soul that resides in the metamorphosis of the body

the alternate voice of these wordless tales spoken by the corporeal road map
tells of skin tougher than an ancient elephant's hide and
brass bound resolve to emerge the victor of each battle

only the closest observation exposes the eternal flame of hope
burning in the eyes that have seen more than they have ever wanted
sharing the quietly thunderous roar of faith and life and love with the willing beholder

I'm reading this book, The Ice Man - Confessions of a Mafia Contract Killer. It's like a train wreck. They warned me it would be - all who read it before me. Warned me that I wouldn't like it - that my heart is too "good". It's morbidly fascinating so far - but some of the things I read simply make me want to cry. They find that pit in my stomach of dread and uneasiness and amazement that such a diabolical person actually existed.

I have to put the book down for a time. I've reached the end of Part I anyhow and as I lay back on the bed and close my eyes, I know that I'd rather be driving home from work and getting ready to walk in the door and looking forward to our Monday Salad than here in Tucson, biding my time until I have to flip the switch back on and be who they want me to be for the rest of the night. Thankfully, this time, at least it's not the first time that many of these people have seen me so the need to catch everyone up on the past year of my life is somewhat alleviated. Somewhat.

I close my eyes and hear the sounds of the Astros-Cubs game. The sounds of baseball are comforting me, and I let my mind drift away to the places that keep me going.

I can hear the sound of the ground squirrels running up and down the deck while sitting on the porch of the Western Cabin at the North Rim. I can feel the wind whispering over us as we sit on the deck and look out at the vastness in front of us, seeing the bolts of lighting at the South Rim across the chasm, sipping wine in the cool summer air.

I can feel the stinging spray of the water at Havasupai Falls. The welcome respite after the ten-mile hike. I struggle to catch my breath as I swim into the current and am overtaken with emotion at the fact that I have managed to swim to the waterfall and am clinging to the slippery rocks behind its crashing strength in front of us. We had no idea what was growing inside.

I can hear the crackling of the twigs beneath my feet as the canopy of trees towers overhead on the Groom Trail. Watching the dogs happily running along ahead of us. Stopping to take a deep breath. To take a picture. Because we knew we'd need to visit that place in our minds in the weeks to come.

I can smell the wet branches that started the campfire and close my eyes and turn my head to avoid the embers as I fan the flames and will the fire to come alive once again. I sit back and see the clear sky above me and watch the sun slowly rise from the east where a planetarium of stars shined the night before.

I am on top of Mt. Whitney after scrambling over the last stretch of moon-like rocks. Feeling my heart skip a beat and the lump forming in my throat as the tears fill my eyes and I know that I am untouchable. At least for that frozen point in time.

My eyes are closed and I bask in that perfect moment, nestled in bed, wrapped in his arms. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck and the warmth of his arm encircling my body. Unmarred by the sounds and chaos and confusion and constraints of the computers and the phones and uncertainty in the world around us. Peacefulness, simplicity, hope, destiny, love, faith, honesty, friendship, and trust. Health, knowing, living, thriving, and being. Slowly stirring and smiling and knowing that there is no other place that I am supposed to be at exactly that moment in time. And that the moment in time will replay itself again... and again... and again in the days and weeks and months and years to come - so long as we believe.

I hear the announcers in the distance. Five shutout innings for Moulder.

I smile and know that I can open my eyes and get ready for the evening that will soon enough turn into morning and find me traveling back to where I belong. Back to where my heart lives. And our kitchen - that sometimes we dance in. And baseball and love.

Ever thankful for the escapes that my minds saves for the times I need them most and knowing that the days ahead hold more sights, sounds, smells, touches and emotions to create and store away in the most valuable of caches in my heart.

My imperfections and failures are as much a blessing from God as my successes and my talents and I lay them both at his feet. - Gandhi

We are living art, created to hang on, stand up, forbear, continue, and encourage others.
- Maya Angelou

So many times when I look in the mirror and see the changes my body, hair, and face have undergone I struggle to reconcile the marred and tattered canvas with the fact that each of the contours on this road map are battle scars of victory.

Eventually, slowly, I will learn to embrace the new colors and textures and lines as necessary parts of the ever-changing whole and the silent stories they tell about a long and winding journey.

and 85 posts later, the story continues.

Thirty seven years behind me... who knows how many more ahead of me.

I have this magnetic poetry calendar on my wall here at work and before I left on Friday, I put the following words together:

I dream to live and grow through another birthday.

And, so I have. It was a nice weekend. A weekend of music and wine and sushi and indulgence. A weekend of friends and laughing and phone calls bearing birthday wishes. A weekend of one more year - of feeling a bit older but, as every year, surprised at the number of my age. I had always been sort of ambivalent about birthdays - or should I say, I never really wanted to hope for too much because when I was younger, since it was during the summer and school was out - more often than not, either I was away or people simply forgot. I think after time I learned not to hope for much so that I was always pleasantly surprised. As I got older - particularly for the past four birthdays, I began to like them more. The realization that it was perfectly OK to be the center of attention for a day began to make sense to me. The fact that someone was carefully selecting gifts that he knew I'd like or knew I wanted was pretty special to me. Now, I roll with it - wherever my birthday-type celebrations take me. Next year we'll be at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon again.

I tend to reminisce at times. I know that it doesn't really matter where I've been and that where I'm going is what makes all the difference - but sometimes I can't help but to look back and observe the path that got me here. I suppose that birthdays and anniversaries of diagnoses or events of that nature tend to bring that out in me. It's not that I get nostalgic, I think sometimes I like to realize how far I've come. And sometimes that realization makes me very emotional. I haven't decided whether or not that's OK, so I choose to believe that as long as I continue living and thriving and not looking back, it's acceptable.

This year for my birthday, my gift to myself (and to those around me, indirectly) was to not mention cancer or treatment the entire day. It got hard at one point when Esther asked me how I'd been feeling and such, but I quickly turned the conversation to other topics. I know she meant well - I hadn't seen her in a few weeks - and I had to make the quick decision whether to be perceived rude and say, "you know, I just don't want to talk about this today" or simply respond. I chose the latter - because it was just easier. But that was it. I think.

There are times that it crept into my mind. The fact that last year at this time we were ready to embark on the roller coaster ride of chemo and treatments and aftermath. Then again, we were also looking ahead at Mt. Whitney. I can't believe it's nearly been a year - but still, conquering Whitney keeps me going sometimes. The feeling of utter accomplishment - of faith in myself, in the world, in the people around me. Faith in my strength, in my ability to overcome, and in my relationship. I found God, for certain, on that trail. I found hope and love and life and invincibility.

I hope that one day I can put into words what I experienced on that trail. The experience of rising before the sun and quietly making coffee in a dark campsite. Of heading up the trail as the sun began to slowly rise and watching the terrain change with every step we took. Of realizing that we were above the tree line and that I wasn't experiencing altitude sickness. Of that last excruciating mile to the summit and the wave of tears that accompanied our success. I was overcome again on the way down - I think it was on the way down the 99 switchbacks. I looked up and realized what I had just done, what I had overcome, what I had to look forward to, and the person beside me. I knew that no matter how uncertain I had been about various things in the past that right there, on our way down Mt. Whitney - I had no doubts in the world. Every now and then it helps to go back to Whitney in my mind.

Next, Kilimanjaro.

Meanwhile it's the start of another year. The first of many that I will be succeeding on this journey. I wondered, in the days leading up to this weekend, if I would always be somewhat nostalgic and weepy around the time of my birthday, because if that was the case, it would really suck. After some serious thought I realized that no, it wouldn't always be this way, but only this year. The first year. The first of many years to come. With that realization, I also knew I had to give myself a minute or so to reflect and to grieve - to acknowledge the road behind me and to digest that it was just that, at this point - before willing myself to nod knowingly and turn my back and continue to walk into the future with my head held high and my conviction strong.

Last year at this time we did a lot of crying and praying and laughing and living and holding on very, very tightly.

And dreaming and hoping to be exactly where we are. Right now.