Keeping It Operational and Sobbing Without Reason

I would hate to lose what little decent writing I might have left here on this blog, so I post very occasionally on the chance that, by so doing, the powers that be at Blogger won't decide the fact that I haven't posted is a good excuse to eliminate it, giving the internet the space this blog is taking up. That's a long sentence, isn't it? I'm inclined to write sentences longer than they need to be because that' the way my mind works. I think in long, convoluted, difficult to follow sentences. Actually, I'm not sure I think I think in sentences. I think in long disconnected thoughts that wrap around themselves while attempting to clarify possible ways in which the thoughts might be misunderstood or misconstrued. Misconstrunderstood. That's a neologism for the ages.

I've been trying my best to be positive about my cancer diagnosis, the removal of a piece of my lung, and the radiation and chemotherapy treatments that have followed. I've faked it pretty well, I think. And it's not all fake. Based on what I know, the likelihood is pretty good that I will survive just fine until something else comes along to claim me. But I can't seem to discard thoughts about the likelihood that cancer is apt to return. According to research studies I've read, or to summaries I've seen, the likelihood that I'll have a return visit by lung cancer is 50% in five years, I think. That's just part of the negativity that I can't seem to shed. The other is that, even with remission and a possible cure, I'm changed. I can't breathe as well as I once could. I feel pain every day, sometimes sharp pain that interrupts what I'm doing. It's never so intense that it causes real problems and it's always fairly short-lived, but it reminds me that I'm no longer who I was. I'm, temporarily at least, a survivor who lives with remnants and reminders of that fact. I know I should get on with my life and not let cancer take control. But it's damn near impossible for me. I feel more than a little like I should start my life over in a way. Move to a new place, start doing new things, experience new opportunities, contribute to the world in new ways. But I can't realistically do those things. It's not just me I have to think about. It's my wife. I'm pretty sure she is of no mind to be uprooted again. I don't think she'd even want to talk about it. So I wallow in my own sadness and feel a sense of hopelessness that's utterly without merit. What the hell is wrong with me that I can't shake this?

Well, this effort to prolong the death of my blog turned into a pretty solemn pity-party for myself. That, too, is something else I tend to allow myself to do. I turn a perfectly innocuous bit of text into a self-absorbed piece of ennui and angst. Jesus, I've got to change into someone else, someone I can like.