I measure time in interesting ways now. A row of trees (“green giants”) were planted in my backyard roughly two years ago. As they grow, like most trees, they send these vertical shoots (for lack of a better word) straight up, and then those, in turn, begin to fill out with horizon branches. They have not only sent up their shoots, but they have also begun to fill out. This is the intention of such trees; they are used as a natural wall. They are close to becoming impenetrable.

I think about when my dear friend visited. They put cream on my hands; it was a lovely gesture and made me feel safe and secure. When they came to visit, we went to get gelato. My hair fell out. They noticed it on my pillow but didn’t want to say anything, but I knew. When I left Chicago, I took their suitcase. It had a little Travelocity gnome on the handle. When I returned home to Maine, I left the suitcase in my room and lived out of it. Not that I couldn’t settle into my room in my mother’s house; I just didn’t think I’d be here long enough to have to. It wasn’t naivety, just wishful thinking and the assumption this would be over and done with by mid-summer. The suitcase was there, just resting in my doorway. I would wash my clothing and put them back in the suitcase, folding the pants and shirts neatly so they would fit. The little gnome smiled up at me, bidding me to take off, to go boldly out there, wherever there was. Slowly I unpacked, however. I washed my clothing, folded it, and began to fill my drawers. Then the suitcase was put in our basement, the little gnome still there, hanging off the top. That was over two years ago.

I want a 9-5 job. I want to go out on the weekends. I want to point the finger at someone or something. I ate organic food for the majority of my life. I was a vegetarian, didn’t touch GMOs, and tried to eat locally when possible. I drank green tea and coffee — but only organic, of course. I was raised on a farm in Vermont — I was an earth-loving flower child before earth-loving flower children became trendy and commercialized. I meditate regularly and exercise 4+ days a week. So why am I still fighting this this fucking disease?

Yes, that’s right, fuck. Fuck this, fuck that… fuck!

There’s shame in all this, too. As with my diet and lifestyle, how on earth did I get cancer, considering how I  tried to be diligent (almost militant!) about the choices I was making? Or is that guilt? I am not sure I fully understand the two: shame and guilt. Do I feel ashamed when I let out the pain and anger from this ongoing battle? Or is that guilt? Do I feel guilty that I feel as though I am burdening someone with it all this? Or is that a shame?

We have a tendency to glorify these people who go through cancer with some sort of sage or guru or saintly-like bravery and stoicism. The talks and books, the inspirational speeches, and blah blah blah. But that person who marches through it all doesn’t exist. Yes, they do, but I can guarantee they cracked, broke down, and screamed. Yes, the inspirational speeches are full of beautiful sentiments about this or that, about how cancer was “the little friend I needed.” The majority, though, I’m assuming, are like me in the sense that they can’t right themselves long enough to step away from the looming shadow that is cancer.

My oncologist said I should get a job. I’m not sure if that was a joke or not.
My other oncologist said, when I had ongoing back pain recently and asked for an MRI (it turned out to be an inflamed disk), “that’s the trouble with doing scans, it seems you always find something wrong.” Excuse me? Fuck you.

Those green giants have indeed filled in. They have made a lovely wall. Inside that wall, on my side, there are plants, flowers, and endless beauty for the eyes to behold. I will admit my gardens are beautiful. Our gardens are beautiful. I spent endless summers crafting them when I was at home from school or had free time from work, etc. When I lacked stamina due to treatment and willpower, my mother took over and put her unique touch on them. But I’m not there, not fully present on our side. I am standing with my friend’s suitcase, with the little gnome on the handle, ready to travel, trying desperately to get beyond the wall of green giants. I am certain that on the other side is a 9-5 job, weekend drinks, and conversations that don’t feel like a burden to others. On the other side, hand massages are simply hand massages and not about squelching intense fear that transcends words.