In this Cancer clinic I'm confronted by death. There are people surrounding me, many of which will die in the next few months. It's eerie and makes me think about age, death and dying. Most of the people I see are well over sixty, but occasionaly there will be a younger person, probably in their 40s. I can't imagine dealing with cancer, let alone the intense treatment process adn constant worry.
I realized that I'm still not comfortable with getting older. I don't want to become enfeebled, unable to care for myself. I'd hate to be a burden, not because I wouldn't want to ipose on loved ones. No, I don't want to be enfeebled because I don't want loved ones to see me so weak. I do not want to be weak.
I pride myself on being able to work through difficulties, to persevere. As it is I rarely ask for help, especially when I see it as a personal failing. Sure, if I have something that I can't get done (NOT something I can't do, there's a difference) for a deadline I'll ask for some help t get it done. I find that if there's something that I can't do, can't figure out, I work so damn hard to figure it out so that I can do it. In these sorts of cases I refuse to get someone else to do it.
With getting old I worry that this situation would change. You can't "figure out" cancer. Treatment either works or doesn't depending on a combination of body chemistry, drugs and internal belief. You get weak, a weak that you simply can't overcome. That's what I fear with age.
I feel sad for the people that look so sick. I feel so hopeful for the people that can wall themselves out of the clinic.
I'm re-reading Portrait of the artist as a young man. Damn, I love James Joyce and his particular brand of stream-of-conscious writing. Borders has the unabridged audio version of Ulysses; it's 40cds. I wants it.
Either way, I feel better reading something classic. I admire that he wrote it when he was 26. Kinda lights a fire under my ass to get my poetry together. I want to be able to pull my own books off a shelf. But that won't likely be for a while.
Oy. I'm going to stop thinking adn enjoy the obscene desert that has arrived. It's in a goblet.