Mirth in messiness… another night drive to the ER, so cold, what were we leaning into? Five degrees, maybe six? The stars above the river ice a mockery of light. Kindness and Dilaudid, another scan, a hurry-up-and-wait, the three of us talking about nothing in particular save for a hike we once took in a thunderstorm and an orange water bottle confiscated (gone, forever) at the Albuquerque airport.
It’s the small hospital not far from our house, not the cancer complex with its soaring blue-green glass. On this zero-degree night, my daughter presses her feet against the room’s wall heater. There’s hardly any patients, save for a man we never see who insists that he must be heard. In the night of dim small lamps, I sleep and wake, talk with a woman from the high plateau country of the upper midwest. She remarks wistfully that Vermont is too tiny and cramped for the sweep of the midwestern sky. Maybe it’s just the Dilaudid, but when sleep folds over me, I dream of those childhood summers my siblings and cousins and I chased fireflies while the grownups drank bourbon and ate our leftover birthday cake and kept at their two-week conversation. The dew washed our bare feet.
The hospital morning flicks on before the sun has dulled the night’s darkness. Mirthless, indeed, I become, crabby with human lack and inhuman fate. Words, words, mine and others’, in a repeating loop. I text my nurse friend. On her lunch break, she appears, and then there’s laughter from nurses in my room. People come and go. I sign for more billing. (How much is this going to cost me, anyway?) The chaplain appears who’s read my book and wants to talk Flannery O’Connor and death. I’m not about to be funeral planning for myself anytime soon, but I plunge right into that death question. Indeed, this wretched cancer, my uninvited guest, perhaps the truest teacher of my life.
He asks, To know to savor every day?
Oh sure. But the disease has whittled me down to a glittering core, to ignore the petty fluff that not so long ago stung my eyes, and certainly my heart, too. What remains is real, both beautiful as those fireflies winking in the sultry midwest night, and ineffably, unbearably sorrowful.
I intend to live a long life; I’ll at least go on for some while, which is all any of us can say. In the meantime, this rarefied illness journey? Not lacking for writing material.
From Flannery O’Connor, The Habit of Being (1988):
In a sense sickness is a place, more instructive than a long trip to Europe, and it’s always a place where there’s no company, where nobody can follow. Sickness before death is a very appropriate thing and I think those who don’t have it miss one of God’s mercies.
Stony Soil Vermont 
Very powerful writing here, ma’am. I guess the spectre of death (however close the spectre is) really crystalizes our essences (whatever that means for each of us).
Each in our own way, I expect…
Raw, powerful, and beautiful words, Brett. I like O’Connor’s almost as much as yours!
Thank you! This is from a collection of her letters — I’ll have to get a copy of this!
Reading your stories again and again, hanging on every word.
🩵
Thank you for taking us along on this journey. Your strength and beauty shine in your words as you describe the walk on this unchosen path. I don’t know what your beliefs are, but I hope you don’t mind if I pray for you, for healing, strength, comfort and to be surrounded by love. I look forward to your posts, to see how you are. My husband had a journey like this, 5 years of acute myeloid leukemia.
I’m always receptive to prayer, and I wish you and your family the warmest and healthiest wishes. 💛
This is powerful writing. While (I think) I’m ok with death (inevitable), I may have to re-think my fear of illness. Wishing you peace amongst the lessons.
Illness is a fearful thing…. But that’s one element of such a complicated experience.
Stay with us, Brett.
❤️
Your writing touches my heart.
As I too, travel this path with cancer, I have learned much about myself. Every good day is a chance to find a little joy and gratitude.
The hard days are spent allowing myself to just be…
Sending healing thoughts your way.
Thank you for reading and writing in. My best and warmest wishes for your journey, too.
Hi Brett, I’ve been so immersed in the little bubble of my little life that I hadn’t caught up with this space since before your cancer… which I’m just learning of now, sitting by the woodstove on this late January afternoon. I’m really sorry to hear, and I’m very appreciative of your writing, as always.
Thank you, Ben, as always. 💛
May the beautiful moments (and memories) outweigh the sorrowful ones. Or at least make them more bearable.
Agreed….
As always, Brett, your words refer to things that, while unexplained, carry more weight than they seem, and make perfect sense: “I chased fireflies while the grownups drank bourbon and ate our leftover birthday cake and kept at their two-week conversation.” Very much like Flannery O’Connor. Prayers in progress.