All is well in Ollieville, for now. Next scan scheduled for tomorrow, but I’m going to have to postpone. I’ve been bedridden the past four days after an old spinal thing (two of my 17 surgeries) flared up, which it does about once a year. When I try to walk, I look like a question mark in search of a sentence.
But the extra downtime has given me space to think more about the A Million Words Away project, my potential legacy, and in the meantime, what it means to be hobbling over this Big Blue Ball (both clothed and unclothed). Because hobbling’s better than the prostrate alternative. Most of the time.
I’m working on the third book, Two Spirits, which delves heavily into Native American mythology. During my time with the Lakota, I learned how to live as if every day were a “good day to die.” And now, with Ollie occupying my valuable brain-space, I’ve learned firsthand how the stuff that occupies you while you’re alive affects, either negatively or positively, how you go about dying.
Cancer is a gift. I say again that Ollie has been a motivational force. Sure, a statement like that flies in the chronically-pained face of incessant headaches, years of treatment, and the slow erosion of my beloved language faculties.
But it’s allowed me to put shit in perspective. To triage. To to focus on only the stuff that matters. Like writing all the fiction I’ve had lazing around for 30+ years.Yes, cancer is a blessing.
And whether I’m set to traverse the river Styx tomorrow or in 10 years — I hope the latter — I know I’m focusing on what it means to live today. Life, with all its craziness and discomfort, humiliation, doubt, and dubious human interaction. All of it’s the greatest gift we’ll ever get.
So I’m pushing boundaries. Carpe diem and so on. You can hear about in this episode. Which is NOT for children.