dcnovice
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November 2, 2014
The (Too) Distant Triumph Song
Dear Ones ---
And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long,
Steals on the ear the distant triumph song,
And hearts are brave, again, and arms are strong.
Alleluia, Alleluia!
William Walsham How, “For All the Saints”
The triumph song was a shade too distant this morning. Or maybe I was.
I keenly wanted to sing these words—from the traditional processional hymn for All Saints’ Day—at church this morning. And I almost did.
Eager to make the 11:15 service, I even set an alarm, something I’ve been loath to do on weekends. I arose in time and began the long warfare of mustering energy to pull myself together and leave the house. This task, never easy, has grown harder lately with the return of anemia for reasons yet unknown.
With help from Queen Victoria—hugely heartened at her Diamond Jubilee when a fan yelled, “Go it, old girl!”—I coaxed myself into the shower. Once a happy place, the tub has become something of a peril, given my balance challenges. Today, though, I relaxed into the wetness and the warmth with joy.
It lasted until my soapy hands reached a literal sore spot: the radiation-damaged flesh of my backside. More than a year after my last zapping, parts of my posterior still feel like old leather. I gather this may be permanent, but I don’t know for sure. Far more troubling is that my wound surgeon keeps citing radiation damage as the likely cause of my failure to heal completely.
Radiation damage has become a much-beaten scapegoat for yours truly lately. What particularly frustrates me is that I had no idea it was coming. I honestly don’t recall ever discussing it with the radiation oncologist or anyone else. And I wasn’t savvy enough to ask about it. Had I known about the likelihood of damage, my decision about undergoing radiation (which promised, and failed to deliver, only a 20 percent chance of shrinking MiMA enough to save my plumbing), might have been different. At least, it would have been informed.
Facing this train wreck of thought, I swiftly deployed the stoic coping strategy that has become second nature: I sobbed. I finished the shower in tears and was still blubbering as I dried off. I was also running late.
Still, I pressed on and thought about what to wear. Then I noticed that the warm water had taken a toll on the adhesive at the edges of my ostomy bag. This wasn’t a crisis, and I knew I’d probably be fine. But replacing the bag would be prudent. That was more than I was ready to tackle, so I used it and my growing tardiness as excuses to stay home.
Not my best call, I know. Weekend isolation has become a bad habit, and I’ve keenly missed the loving embrace of my church friends. (Folks have been great about bringing Communion, but it’s not the same as being there.) But sometimes, when the strife is fierce, the triumph song is sadly out of earshot.
As ever, thanks for reading and your loving responses!
Cheers,
DC
_____________________________
No matter how cynical you become,
it's never enough to keep up.
JANE WAGNER, THE SEARCH FOR SIGNS OF
INTELLIGENT LIFE IN THE UNIVERSE
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