Once upon a disease, “weekends off” meant time to
clean the gutters, edge the lawn, burn the burgers, head to Lowe’s to buy that
broken weedwhacker replacement whirligig thingie-dingie, or to pretend I’m a
new breed of visio-chemist who finds artsy-fartsy
photo profundity in my stacked medicine bottle skyline … or … forget all that
and instead search for brave new ways to
make play and leisure the driving albeit short-lived forces and payoffs for the
week’s labors.
Yes, now, thanks to rascal Rad Chemo, I must work hard
at play. I must catch-up on all those domestic fall-behinds we tend to leave
for the weekend, then force myself to relax above all else and to stop thinking
of weekends as more than just “two days without treatments.”
One bit of culture commentary, then I’m off with Diane
to jump in the lake. Today in a not so random observation:
Smoking has changed, as we all know. Now forbidden in restaurants, bars, public
buildings, hospitals and in many places the great outdoors.
I’m not saying that my adult lifetime of smoking gave
me this lung cancer, but if that link in my life was a court case, I’d be a witness
for the prosecution. True enough, people do succumb from cancers with no
apparent cause, but that’s where the defense falls flat. Look at the
numbers.
“Hypocrite! Bluenose!” you might level at me, and I
might deserve it, but my point is not to point the finger at anyone else. I’ve
always thought that the answer to litter is not to pick up everyone’s trash,
but rather to not throw any yourself.
Play that logic out to the end, and you’ll see it
solves the problem for all of us.
But, I do have a new not-so-random sensitivity or two,
post-lung cancer onset:
--- Once upon a toke, I couldn’t sit at a computer
(typewriter in the early days) without a butt going. Now, I can’t imagine it.
--- I’m remembering ashtrays at the nurse’s station in
the hospitals (that’s how long I’ve been in the trenches, and I mean the latter
kindly).
--- I remember as a boy, sneaking a pack of Camels from my mother’s purse, climbing out my window on the roof and lighting up.
First thing she said when I came back downstairs: “Did you enjoy your smoke?” I
thought she was a genius.
When I spot a pride of puffers these days, I’m sad.
First because I’m now hyper-tuned into the odor, and it’s what hits my senses
first. I’m coming up on four years out quitting smoking, and I can now smell a
smoker across the street. And, when any smoker who passes by me isn’t smoking,
I smell it on them.
Egads. That’s how I smelled all those years? Ugh.
Ughier. Ughiest. And, I’m sad because I now know (yes, even though I KNEW all
those years) the tolls of tobacco. But, if I can come to the end of it, anyone can.
Great weekend, everyone. Good luck fixing your
whackers!
More as we go, El
