David Crosby has passed

Two blog series collide…

Hey, come on, you know me by now; you know how I need to weave a swatch of cloth from my life’s events and then make it into a garment. And you know that it takes me a while, sometimes weeks to do so. And you know how I flee to the past when the present gets tough and the future looks iffy. Stick this patch in the middle of the fabric: The I hate January patch. I detest watching the month crawl along in winter’s darkness, but I love when it shoves me onto a new calendar page: February, and, somehow, on Groundhog Day, (how symbolic of my life?) I notice the slightly longer days and that gives me hope. So far the NYC winter has been very doable temperature-wise. Snow can be called rain. Rain can be called an inconvenience. So much in life has become an inconvenience, especially the breast cancer that has returned.

I’ve told you about this. I’ve told you in words. I’ve not told you in feelings, because do you really want to hear? Do you really want to hear about that feeling of being blind-sided? Do you really want to know how many details and moments go in to planning a treatment? Do you need to know how many phone calls and hours are spent on the phone doing the research to plan a major event that mirrors the one that took place almost twenty years ago? Of course you don’t. It’s too damn oppressively scary. But sometimes a voice whispers in my ear: you are the one who will lead the way. Move on. Carry on with grace and dignity.

The plan: I am going to have a second mastectomy. After almost twenty years. Please don’t ask me when because I myself have yet to find out the date when the surgeon and plastic surgeon will, on their Venn Diagrams, overlap in time and place. It takes a while. It may be next month. It may be March. In the meantime, I sit half-frozen on the couch on a bearably-temperatured Winter’s day. After day. After day. And overimagine. I replay the twelve hour surgery almost twenty years ago, with twelve hours in the recovery room. And the feeling of being hit by a truck for weeks. I try to figure out who will take care of me. I interview agencies and then I feel better, for a while. Then the panic returns.

I must do this; really, have you ever known me to take the easy way out? Yes, I can go on all kinds of inhibitors, estrogen suppressants, bone meds, and antidotes for all of the side effects. I can go on radiation therapy until I am crispy. I can do all of this and still not be guaranteed that these blasted, recurrent papillomae will never return, and with that I would still need more surgery. Hence my choice, my choice of never again! That’s my battle cry, and the price is huge. Another body part is sacrificed.

I think that The Universe observed me and said, “the hell with the husband in the nursing home, she needs to focus on herself.” Good job, the Universe knew me well, knew that I would be obsessed with the details of all the planning on my own behalf. Almost the same details that were applied when I was taking care of my mother—finding reputable caretakers—this time, for myself. Trying to figure out every detail in advance. Because …

There is no Robert here. He was the one who stood by me during all of these trials so many years ago. Tens of appointments, pre-op, post-op, the big op. He tended to the drains dangling from me like water-bearing grenades. He was a care-taker, he saw me through.

I have seen Robert on a few occasions via FaceTime. He is not as interactive as he was a few months ago. He seems to hear, to listen, to process but he selectively responds and I don’t know if that means he can or cannot carve the words out of his memory and put them on a string. Being on FaceTime is a window into his room and the tiny world he lives in. It is a noisy, distracting world of people near him trying to leave their beds unattended, wheeling themselves to the bathroom which is right next to him, vocalizing aimlessly. It’s not pretty, it is not how it should be, it is not anything I can really explain except to say it’s not what I ever expected nor imagined and I bet Robert never ever thought he’d end up this way as well. My monologue continues: I talk to him, I try not to stress him with questions, simple questions he can’t answer. Instead, I stress myself. I take the bullet.

And then there is the loss yesterday of the iconic David Crosby:

“Time I Have.” You start it by singing: “People do so many things that make me mad/But angry isn’t how I want to spend what time I have.” 

“I spent a lot of my life angry, and I don’t want to, because the less life you have left, the more you treasure it, and the more you are trying to use every minute to accomplish something. That attitude, which comes with age, is all through this record. There’s a choice to be made with every minute that you spend. And I’m spending mine having fun, man, and creating.” ~David Crosby

For a while, Crosby fought many demons, some came along for the ride when he lost his big love, others hitchhiked on the backs of drugs. He righted himself and carried on.

That’s just what I need to do.

Carry On

One morning I woke up and I knew
You were really gone
A new day, a new way
And new eyes to see the dawn
Go your way, I’ll go mine
And carry on

The sky is clearing and the night
Has gone out
The sun, he come, the world
Is all full of love
Rejoice, rejoice, we have no choice
But to carry on

The fortunes of fables are able
To sing the song
Now witness the quickness with which
We get along
To sing the blues you’ve got to live the dues
And carry on

Carry on
Love is coming
Love is coming to us all

[Part II: “Questions”]
Steven Stills [Instrumental Interlude]

Where are you going now, my love?
Where will you be tomorrow?
Will you bring me happiness?
Will you bring me sorrow?

Oh, the questions of a thousand dreams
What you do with what you see
Lover, can you talk to me?

This post is part of my series, Blogging for Breast Cancer. The index link is here.

The previous post is here

The next post is here

It is also has crossed paths with another series:

📌That series starts here:
Part 1: And The Band Played On … a mother’s life, a daughter’s journey
The previous post is here

The next post is coming