Belting out Songs

I was walking on the trail this morning when a random memory of my grandmother got a hold of me. My mother’s mom was a remarkable lady. She had no meanness in her at all. Her kindness filled the room around her. She always did whatever I wanted to do. We used to play outside often. Well, I played, and she dutifully sweated next to me. Most of my memories of her revolve around the throws of Alzheimer’s disease infiltrating my grandfather’s mind. But, no matter, she was there, always ready to laugh and play with me. On this particular day, I was a bit older. Sleepless in Seattle had been a big hit and I had the cassette tape firmly plugged into my head. I credit that movie with my love of older music. I never heard my grandmother appreciate music that much. I usually kept my deep obsession with music to myself due to the fact that she didn’t seem to dig it. I was throwing a ball on the roof, or something, and turned to her and asked her to listen to what I was listening to. I fastened them to her head, made sure the volume wouldn’t knock her down, and pressed play. I went about my business, not expecting much of a reaction. We had never really shared a love of music. I wasn’t paying her much attention when she suddenly broke into song. She started wailing “Stand By Your Man” in a loudness I had never expected. I looked, startled at first, over at her and a smile began breaking out in spite of me trying not to. I tried to get her to quiet down a bit, besides, surely the neighbors must be hearing this… No good – she was all in. I just let it happen, and deeply enjoyed it. She sat there, that warm summer day, and belted that song out at the top of her lungs. Thinking about that still makes me smile, and then tear up at little. She was going through so much. I wish I could have been there for her. I wish I could have let her have an outlet, a safe place to not be okay. Don’t we all need that? Her life was an exercise of just being okay with everything. Can’t fall apart, can’t act like we didn’t see this coming. Maybe that little unlikely burst was a small outlet for her. She needed that particular song on that particular day. I am glad I had the ability to provide that small bit.

I am done with my second chemo treatment. Almost completely bald. I’ve had three stages of hair loss. I had Mary shear it off with a 4 about two weeks ago. When the day came that had handfuls of my short hair falling out in the shower, I asked Lily to no guard it. Besides, it was disappearing in a random leopard print that wasn’t speaking “I have cancer,” but yet, “I have a severe case of mange…” Now, it’s barely there, and I never realized how cold bald actually is. I still feel the need to explain myself to people. “Not just a Sinead O’Connor fan…” The words of my great aunt, Chicher, ring through my head about having a “nude noggin.”

It’s been challenging, but it could be worse, of that, I am positive. I feel cruddy for about a week after my treatment. Now that I’ve had two, I hope that’ll be about par. I try to push through those seven days, and then I can kind of go on with life, to a certain extent. I’m trying to work some, but the coronavirus stuff still puts a wrench in my plans. I don’t want two C diseases at the same time, no matter how people feel about them. I’m wearing a mask anytime I get out, and not going anywhere, really.

I read an interesting chapter in a book yesterday about letting go of things. In this chapter, the author spoke about suffering and how it is for the works of God to be displayed in us (John 9). The author also said: “What if the worst parts of your life are actually gateways to the very best parts you’d never want to do without?” I believe that with all my heart.

I am so very thankful for the things that have happened to me. Not many people get to see the view that I have seen. It’s like being up on a tall mountain, looking down in all directions. The people below can’t really see much but the horizon. I’ve had quite a few things happen to me in the past. I’ve known heartache in a way I could have never thought would happen. I’ve felt pain in ways I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Now I have a physical ailment that could kill me. I mean, before I started chemo, I was essentially dying. Now I’m back to living, Lord willing, but feeling yucky. All I can think of is how much I can help other people. How all of these things that I’ve seen and been through can allow me to have an insight I may not have normally had. I’m very thankful for them all, even though they have admittedly sucked.

I woke up yesterday ready to travel. Ready to not take one single moment of health and happiness for granted. I hope God gives me some time to do just that. To appreciate every moment. To enjoy every bite. To help in ANY way that I can, anyone who needs it.