Sunday, February 6, 2011

Post One Hundred and Sixteen: The Backwards Math.

Do I have time to second guess myself? I start the backwards math.
"She's (x age), I'm 26..that would leave me (y) years. Shit."

We held a very upsetting funeral service today. It was for a young woman who had passed away from a very quick and intense illness. Her body was a tiny shell, her face gaunt and aged from the disease that took her. I saw photos of her with her friends at concerts and festivals and her cheeks were pink and full. These photos weren't old. In fact, she wasn't much older than me. I take similar photos with my girlfriends when I'm out at gigs and festivals and today I couldn't help but think that my life could so easily be hers. Why her? If she'd have known three years earlier...

I count back often. Another lady who had the pleasure of my company today died in her seventies. If I die in my early seventies, that leaves me about fourty four years to do what I want to do. Is that enough time? Not particularly, if I consider how badly I want to grow long silver hair and tie it in a bow above my head like a granny ga ga. I also want to sky dive for my sixty-ninth birthday.

Most people die in their eighties, but plenty knock off earlier. Today's exemplar demonstrated that I shouldn't be greedy with my years. Like they say, it's not the days in the life but the life in the days that count.


Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Post One Hundred and Fifteen: Tumours on A Tuesday.

I hate cancer.

My workmates and I can't make sense of it. We have all been inappropriately touched by it in some way or another, the filthy scumbag of a disease it is. Some of us at work have lost friends and family to the illness. It took my Aunty Katie, and my sister punched through it a couple of times. Even a couple of our favourite funeral workers are battling the illness and undergoing treatment themselves. A tip of the hat to you fellows, you are amazing and loved.

In some ways, I wish I didn't see dead people EVERY DAY. I am too used to cancer being final, as a witness to the wrong side of the diagnosis. I need to be exposed to the survivors that come out from the illness with their heads high and their realities realigned. My perceptions are inaccurate and it makes me feel gloomy.

Today I helped a number of people who died of cancer. I washed them, dressed them, and comforted them. Cancer schmanser, they got the deluxe treatment. If their ghosts were around I hope that they enjoyed the long awaited post-mortem pampering.

I hate cancer.

Peace and Hope.