Friday: February 17, 2012 (Part One)

A wintry blue sky crowns my view to the outside world. A jet slips past the large picture window, destination unknown. I feel warm and snug in this womb my soft hospital bed has become.

My destination today is home. Tomorrow? Who knows. I'm learning that uncertainty is our lone guarantee.

I feel buoyant. I even managed to sing a few bars to Pat, the receptionist at radiation.

“Where is love? Does it fall from skies above? Is it underneath the willow tree that I've been thinking of?”

I've slept well. The walk to and from radiation oncology this morning caused little pain. Three days out from surgery, my body is mending. The clots are gone. The doctors say the tumor is nearly destroyed.

Mary Lou stopped by with a cup of strong coffee and a kiss to brace me. Life is good. I have plans and they seem to make sense.

Yet, despite all of this hope and optimism, I remain wistful. As much as I wish to be strong, I feel weakness tugging hard at the margins of my existence.

I know that this, too, shall pass. Should it be God's will, my life will be absorbed again someday by the mundane and pedestrian.

You see, I've grown tired of contemplating the great existential questions. Healing's true gift will be leaving behind the drama and urgency of the last two months.

I want a life where the ordinary is just that. Ordinary.