Life? Or Theater?

One of my favorite artists, Charlotte Salomon, posed this question: is it life? Or is it theater?  She made around 800 small gouache paintings depicting her tragic life and secured it in a book.

In 2007, I visited Amsterdam.  I was traveling by myself and staying in a hostel.  It was cheap and clean and cramped.  I shared a bunk bed in a room the size of a large closet with 2 additional bunk beds.  I was the only American and, surprisingly, the oldest traveler.  There was the lone ginger-headed and cheerful Aussie teen girl who slept on the bottom bunk.  There were the Aussie brother and sister sharing another bunk and a young English couple who tittered when I said “cell phone” rather than “mobile”.  Behind their backs, the Aussies called them “the Limeys” in a way that seemed almost affectionate rather than derogatory. 

Charlotte Salomon’s precious book is held in the Jewish Historical Museum in Amsterdam.  When I made my plans to go to Amsterdam, this was one place I had to go.

My hostel was farther into the city and it took 2 zones worth of strippenkart to get to the museum, only to walk a few blocks and find the building composed of multiple old synagogues.  After searching through the religious artifacts, that were symbolic that they survived the Holocaust, I found no sign of Life? Or Theater?

It was only a glance in a corner when I came to the realization that the exhibition was going through remodeling and the book was not in fact on display.  I took a step beyond a velvet rope in hopes to sneak a glance at the book.  I longed to experience its momentum through its mass and size.

It was not there.

Instead an empty glass case only hinted at its former occupant. 

I suppose I could have spoken up and pleaded and asked the museum staff if I could see the paintings since I had come so far to visit it.  But I didn’t.

I picked up a CD of its digitized images in the gift shop.  The middle-aged woman who worked at the gift shop was intrigued by my presence and I could feel her gaze on my back as I looked at postcards: we rarely see young people here.  Even when paying for a bookmark and the CD, I could tell she wasn’t sure what language to speak.  Dutch? Hebrew? English?  She smiled kindly to me when I spoke English, as I only knew a handful of basic Dutch formalities, my Hebrew non-existent.

When I left the museum, I had a tiny bit of disappointment.  I didn’t get to see the famous piece that resonated with me.  I traveled over 5000 miles to see a piece of art that wasn’t there.

In its own trickery and timing, something surfaced within me.  I felt the elusive quality of life’s events.  This was a taste.  A tease. 

Sometimes things just don’t work out.  Sometimes things just don’t make sense.

I ask myself everyday though, not necessarily intending to receive an answer: so what is it then? Is it life? Or is it theater?

Postscript: on this same trip, the Rijksmuseum was also going through remodeling, so I saw little of that one too.  However, the Anne Frank House and the Van Gogh Museum were awe-inspiring.  I also found out recently that the Dutch no longer use strippenkart to take the tram.  It was basically a line of skinny perforated tickets that got stamped with times and then torn off when expired.  It seemed a bit old-fashioned at the time, but now knowing I have unused tickets hiding somewhere in my belongings makes me feel like I have a piece of something historic.

Quitter

They say a sign of maturity is when you understand your limitations and follow them.

I have had a humbling Spring to say the least.

I am already all too aware that my body is still in post-treatment flux and is continually evolving to a better state of health.  This evolution, however, is taking its time.  It feels that when I look back to my early 20s, it was decades ago, that I’m looking across a giant bridge at myself on the other side.  I feel aged by circumstance.  Fences run around my once-boundless energy.  I turn a corner to pick up some speed and deter it, but there it is, yet another wall.   

Post-treatment fatigue and joint pain has caused much alarm and frustration for me in the past few months.  When I brought these issues up to my oncologist during one of my follow up appointments last month, he said it might be depression.  Determined to prove him wrong, I began systematically removing items out of my diet that could be the source of the fatigue and pain.

I have quit eating wheat and dairy.  I have quit drinking coffee.  Ok, ok, I haven’t perfected these pristine dietary standards, but for the most part, I’ve been a good girl.  You might think I dove into the sea of the silly.  In reality, desperate times call for desperate desperateness. 

I’m surprised to say that a diet with lean meat and lots of vegetables seems to be the best for me thus far.  Green juice has made its way back to my normal routine.  Part of the annoyance factor is the awareness about the dark sides of the food industry.  It is part government agriculture subsidies, part chemical manufacturing, part marketing and advertising. 

This awareness ties back to the mystery surrounding my initial diagnosis.  It is like everything is bad for you.  Anything can cause cancer.  Better yet, anything can prevent cancer.  To come up with an informed decision is impossible.  Everything contradicts everything else.

Worse still, this cynicism is leaking into other parts of my life. 

Don’t get me wrong, there is more Pollyanna than not within me.  It’s just that my tolerance for bullshit is getting smaller by the day.  Then again, I can be extraordinarily patient with other people, but not with myself.  This, of course, has negative repercussions.

After nearly a year of dealing with school woes: financial aid, student status, withdrawing from classes, registration, getting this and that approved, waiting for replies from the Graduate School and the College of Information about my future graduate career, I’ve come to a significant conclusion:

I’m exhausted.

I’m also exactly where I wanted to be with or without school: I have a job with benefits that can cover my formerly cancer-ridden ass (or should I say lung?) and any potential shenanigans that might ensue.  I have a 401(k) and paid vacation.  I like my coworkers and workplace.

All in all, I’ve become the responsible grown-up despite my cancer-ness.

So, why do I need to pile any additional stress? 

I left work a tiny bit earlier Monday thinking I’d get home early and help my family prepare dinner.  I ended up arriving exactly when I would get there if I hadn’t left early because of an accident on the main highway to my home.

No lies I hate traffic.  I even took off my work shoes while stopped on I-35 and fished some flip-flops out of the backseat.  I had that much time and inclination to get home and be comfortable.

I also had enough time to come to a realization.  If I sit in congested traffic to get home, it is more infuriating than taking the side streets, which may be longer but keep me moving. 

Thus, why the hell am I putting myself in congested traffic when all I need is to take the long way on the side streets?

Upon arriving home grumpy and tired, I knew my decision to stop graduate school was made.

At this point, I don’t know if it will be a permanent or temporary hiatus.  I don’t know if I will stay in librarianship, even though it is dear to my heart.  I don’t know if I’ll return to UNT.

Decisions, decisions…

…for another day.

A year in review.

I have started and stopped many blog posts since I last wrote.  Nothing quite stuck.  Nothing quite seemed right.

It has almost been a year since my cancer diagnosis. 

There are so many fragments in my memories from this past year.  Some things stand out more than others.  You’d think it is the terrible procedures, treatments, and surgeries I had to experience.

More often, to be honest, I reflect more on the events aside from those.

I am all too aware that I fall back onto my snarky and sarcastic sense of humor.  It’s a defense mechanism that conceals a great deal of hurt, but it has helped ease the blow.  I still swing it over my shoulders and carry it with me day to day. 

I’m surprised almost daily to come across other survivors and friends and family members of survivors.  It’s a bit like joining a club where its members only understand the lingo. 

There is a bittersweet irony of cancer survival.  Yes, my treatment is over and I happy dance over this.  However, I am all too aware of the potentially rocky future I face after the fact. 

There is a fine line between living for the moment and living to preserve one’s self.  Where does spontaneity and relishing the small things fit in?  Do I think for now?  Or do I think for the future?  Is it possible to balance both? 

I have a more formal sense of survival.  Survival not only in health, but also as a global citizen, as an adult, as a perpetual student of life. 

It’s so easy to view the world as cruel, but it is defeatist and all encompassing.  If darkness is the night sky we see, then the moments of clarity, love, and positive thoughts are the stars that punctuate it.  They might seem small and insignificant, but they are everywhere.

I thank my lucky stars each day for the awareness I’ve been granted despite it all.

Abstract Realism

During the actual radiation, I don’t see anything.  I sorta feel it.  I was told I wouldn’t, but I’m not entirely sure I agree.  Sometimes I swear I smell the scent of burnt popcorn.  I wonder if it’s the tissue in my chest burning. 

I figure the interstellar space around my Deathstar is littered with radioactive poison and remnants of cells.  I imagine them floating like sparkly dust particles in my body.  I wish my brain would allow me to go inside myself and see everything microscopically.  I’m unsure of what it truly looks like in there.  Aside from the initial x-ray with the looming mass overtaking my left lung, I don’t have a good picture in my head of it all.  Perhaps this could be remedied.  My squeamishness has flown out the window after this past year.  I might not enjoy having blood siphoned out of my port for example, but by God, if it necessary, I will just friggin’ deal with it.  Surely looking at photos of my insides won’t incite any additional paranoia.

During radiation, my nose sometimes runs a bit too.  I was told it might hit my esophagus and I could have trouble swallowing.  I haven’t noticed this so much.  The nausea and fatigue hits about 3-4 hours after the treatment.  I get smacked with this narcoleptic exhaustion.  I have to remind myself not to drive my car around 6 at night because I might just collapse.  It usually goes away in about an hour unless I fall asleep first.  If I fight through it, I seem to be okay, but there is a moment or two when all I want to do is succumb to the sweet, sweet sensation of fading away in tiredness.  This is perhaps the only similar sensation I had during chemo: the moments when you just give in and let your body do what it needs.

The fading in and out of my body and consciousness envelops my entire daily existence.  Am I here? 

I recall the sensation of falling backwards.  There was that uncertainty of whether I’d hit something or just keep falling.  I don’t know which is worse: knowing when it will end and dealing with the consequences or not knowing when or if it will end at all. 

This pretty much sums up my feelings on my cancer journey thus far.  The shadows of it are always near me.  I don’t think they will ever go away.  It is an encouraging thought to realize that many before me have gone through this and recovered and living fine, productive lives.  I doubt anyone truly thinks about the processes that people who have had serious trauma go through in recovery.  It can be disheartening to watch someone you care about go through those things.  I still maintain that I think this has been harder for my friends and family than myself.  I know what I am feeling and I know when it is good or bad, but that uncertainty is a mainstay for those close to you.  They can only gauge your reactions, expressions, and words. 

I have this fear that the momentum of my experiences will backhand me so fast I’ll have whiplash.  I have to keep moving one step ahead of it before it reaches me. 

Taking in the little moments helps immensely.  I have to realize that the treatments affect your psyche as much as your body. Therefore, I hold this thought close to my heart: there is beauty in the abstract even if it doesn’t always make sense.