Sailing the Big C

Suddenly, cancer is all around me.

A friend in the hospital with brain cancer.

And THREE of my co-workers, including one who is Stage 4 with a prognosis of 5-7 years.

There are only nine of us, for the record.

I mean, what the hell??

I don’t have any indicators, myself. But it feels as though death is closing in around me.

This is the season of Hallows: the time when I contemplate mortality, do my observances for my Honored Dead, think about the hoped-for harvests that never came up and must now be turned back into the soil. It’s a powerful and evocative time, and between the spooky movies and seasonal decorations and rituals, one I deeply enjoy, even though some of it makes me uncomfortable.

I hope for another decade, perhaps even two. I’ve just been notified that I must sign up for Medicare. The Old Man is definitely tapping his foot.

This has been an abundant year for me, and new harvests are imminent: the republication of ROUND WE DANCE: Creating Meaning Through Seasonal Rituals and the launch of my new monthly podcast, Nights at the Ritual Fire, will both take place on Halloween.

But I wonder: has cancer begun somewhere in me, indetectably small, even now? Am I already carrying around what will kill me?

Morbid thought…but then, ’tis the season.

Cancer underscores the sheer randomness of whether, in any given day or year, we live or die. The capriciousness of an uncaring Universe to which, nonetheless, we owe everything. To which I feel such aching gratitude.

One day–and not at all far away, in absolute terms–I will be wiped away. The systems of my body will stop working, and will be incapable of maintaining the neural net that is me. That information pattern will dissolve, and I will no longer exist. The energy sustaining my body will radiate away as heat, and the body that used to be me will grow cold.

I will be dead.

I’m not afraid of that. I was dead for 13.79 billion years and I didn’t mind a bit. I don’t expect I will after my life ends, either.

But I love existing. I love living. And I want more time.

What I am afraid of is the process of dying. Debilitation, pain, dependency, loss of cognition. Fear.

All that said, I don’t want to be drugged and insensible when it happens if I can avoid it. I don’t want a sudden or violent death, of course, but unless the pain is unbearable I want to have that final experience in a life of extraordinary experiences.

Wishes, wishes.

None of my friends and colleagues with cancer are getting their wishes. They are getting cold, hard facts.

One day–unless it’s sudden–I will be given The News. I imagine I will take a deep breath, let it out and say, “Okay. What happens now?”

But maybe I will collapse in tears. Who knows?

I kind of doubt that latter possibility, and the reason is my Atheopagan practice.

Every October, I confront my mortality. I consider the focus I maintain for my Honored Dead, and their memories.

I light candles. I review and update the packet of information and instructions I have left for my survivors: my Death Packet.

I remember how grateful I am for this brief, extraordinary ride. This magical gift of life.

I walk through the old Victorian cemetery on Halloween day, under the arching oaks, noting the brief remains of those gone.

I live while the living is good, while I can.