Cancer, writing with a blank keyboard, and a dead wife

So after waiting a year of being in the shadows of my thoughts, I came to the conclusion last night that while it felt good to have lots of views of my last post, if feels better to just write again. I’ve always said that this blog was for me, not you, and I do appreciate the likes and views. I honestly don’t know what made my count soar last night. I hope it wasn’t the cancer. I don’t want to be yet another cancer writer. It’s a part of me and my crap, but by no means do I even remotely identify as a “survivor” because most of them are so damn happy and positive that I want to choke them and ask about their crap. Sure I am happy that I was so “lucky” in a lot ways about my cancer, but cancer sucks. It’s hard. There should be no big celebrations after; there should be napping, lots of naps. My radiology team told me that they were glad that I was the first appointment of the day (every day, for 6 weeks) because I was so positive and energetic. Boy would they go crazy if they saw me completely well. I’m nicknamed Hurricane Sandy by Matthew’s (my kid) band for my energy, not the destruction part. And maybe I am positive, but I can’t ever imagine a pink ribboned theme or a survivor party. To me, my cancer journey (the biopsies, MRI’s, surgery, radiation, and now that stupid pill I have to take for 5 years) was like taking a crap. Nobody wants to do it, yet we all have to, and do. Might as well make the best of it- kinda like your crap. Embrace it, it’s nobody else’s. And I’m a writer; so I write about my crap.

I used to write (and am now) in the morning, in the dark, before the sun comes up and everyone is awake. The funny part is that my keyboard doesn’t have letters on it. Most of them wore off from years of abuse when I was in college, learning to write, and writing. I even have another keyboard waiting for me to just hook it up. But I feel as if this one is more my style; it’s like the letters are hiding, waiting to be put together in some magical fashion that heals and entices, a blank keyboard of thoughts and ideas. It’s perfect. But since I have been seeing Michael and staying at his house, I don’t have my computer or my perfect keyboard. He has a laptop. And I can’t write on it. It’s too small. Plus, when I tried writing at his house, those letters on the keyboard kept taunting me. My computer is more my style. It’s blank- as are my thoughts when I sit down to write.

So why aren’t I now at Michael’s house? It’s simple. My kids have been slacking and it’ll do him good to miss me a little bit. We were both off work from May to March, so we were together pretty much all of the time. Before my cancer it was great. And even during/after it was great, and now. But now that he’s working, I see no point in hanging out at his house while he’s at work. I do quite frequently, because it’s quiet and way less hectic and messy than at my house. But I feel as if he needs to be alone to be able to think (remember that even unwell, I’m still a hurricane) about the reality that he can love both me and his dead wife at the same time- without guilt. She’s dead; I’m here. The only threats to me are that he’s glorified her to be some perfect specimen of what a wife should be and his guilt. And from what I’ve heard and seen, she was wonderful and I would have probably liked her. I highly doubt that she deserves the pedestal he’s put her on though, because she was human at one point, with flaws and imperfections, like all of us. But again, I’m here; She’s dead. Real living people are much harder work than ghosts; they require having their needs met. And my needs are not being met. I’ve made peace with the idea that he will always love her, will always have her on that pedestal, and they had a great 6 year marriage (even though she was sick for over half that). My problem is that I feel second. And I shouldn’t. I’m fantastic and should feel as if I’m the center of his universe. I don’t. And it’s not her fault, she’s been dead for 6 years; it’s his. So he needs to think about the rest of his life (he’s only 44, so there’s a lot of it left) and if he wants to share it with his dead wife or very living -and quite fantastic- girlfriend. But I can’t make him jump in with both feet, trust both me and us, make his guilt less, or even make him toss out or box up her crap that’s still in his house. I can only tell him how I feel, which I did, and wait. The rest is up to him. So I wait, impatiently. And I write.


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