The Quicksand Hold

Quicksand pulls with such a strength

That even the world's strongest man

Can not release himself.

Quicksand goes unnoticed to the hiker

Until it is too late.

It swallows her, silencing

Screams with the rush of granules into the mouth.

Unmovable limbs, cemented into place;

The sand crushes forcing out a quiet whimper

From the hiker's chapped lips.

Where will this hiker go?

Will she forever be stuck in this hole?

Is there a way out of the quicksand hold?

If I can catch my breath,

I will surely let you know.

Temporary

My mother said to me the other day that an experience such as this makes one question life's purpose. I wanted to say to her that I have been questioning life's purpose ever since I can remember; instead, I just listened.

What this experience magnifies for me is how everything is temporary. I suppose this is where the concept of Carpe Diem becomes meaningful. But what does it mean to seize the day? It certainly does not imply I shrug off my responsibilities and run off in search of something more fantastical; this would be too much like a romance novel or ABCfamily movie--simply unrealistic.

It seems the meaning of Carpe Diem is contextual. For me I think it means enjoying my children even when I have no idea how to stop an almost three year old from running away from me after screaming "No" in my face as I carry her four month old brother who begins to cry because he is hungry. Often I have heard parents say, "This stage or behavior is temporary." So is my time with them. Before I know it, they will make a life away from me. My relationship with them will become a lower priority. Everything is temporary.

Everything is temporary, even the pain I endure as I watch my father die and my mother wonder why she struggles to cope. My mother fears the temporary; it means life as she has come to know it will forever be changed. If I prayed, I would pray for my mom to embrace the concept of Carpe Diem. The only thing I can do is try to embrace it myself. This too is only temporary.

His Cancer, Our Cancer

Hands crossed across the chest

Eyes closed with quiet distress

Mind firing rapidly memories of the past.

What does he dream as he exists

Between time and space?

Today is yesterday,

Yesterday is ten years ago,

Tomorrow is another reality

Fabricated by criss-cross synapses

Turning his thoughts upside-down

Inside-out, side to side.

What is real to him is not real to me

Then what does life really mean?

Cancer digs its claws deep into the flesh

Taking over the breathing corpse.

Who rests behind these crusted eyelids?

At times it is the father, the husband

At times it is a child-like man.

His wife works diligently to assist in his existence,

He comforts her with subtle praise.

Every minute she is reminded of what she has lost

He forgets she was there, and fears when she is gone.

The cruelty of brain cancer should be a federal crime,

Sentenced to the death penalty.

The disease has no conscious; spreading

Injustice as it grows

Taking place of any judge who would never

Declare this man life without parole.

Life is unfair.

Life is beyond clear.

Life is undefined.

Cancer's barbarity contaminates

All in its path.

His cancer is our cancer.

Tears fall incessantly.

Curse of Cancer

I named this blog Too Common of a Life after a coming-of-age type poem I had written many years ago because I truly believe that any of my life situations/stories or those I witness of others are not unique, although how one experiences these situations are unique to the individual. This make life so interesting. This is why I love poetry, its ability to capture commonality and uniqueness.

For those who read this, you know that I am witnessing the curse of cancer. Cancer is too common of a life. Google cancer stories, cancer poems, cancer walks, etc and there is a plethora of people who have survived, been killed by, or witnessed the curse of cancer. While I factually knew this to be the case, I now personally know it.

When knowledge moves from external recognition to internal reality, it is powerful. This knowledge can become a tsunami, damaging everything in its path. It is a knowledge that one must get a hold of and it is this experience of "taking control of such intense knowledge" or "controlling the aftermath of the curse" that I am interested in hearing more about. I suppose this is what support groups are for, or message boards, but these venues just don't appeal to me, at least not at this particular moment.

I don't want to talk about my experience of steering this knowledge (although this blog is exactly that), I want to understand my experience through the voice of others. I want to listen deeply to how others make sense of this reality. This is how I cope. This is how I learn. This is how I will be able to live through the cancer disaster that is devastating my father's life, my family's life.

The riptide is forceful and coming up for air is not always an option, but it is a necessity to my survival. My father will not survive this curse, but his family must. My father's life must remain meaningful even after he leaves us. I know what I want or where I need to bring my experience, but I am unsure of how to get it, or how to get there.

Damn the curse of cancer; I raise my fist to you. You will not drown me. You will not confuse me. You may be taking my father without his choice (a sucker punch I have no respect for), but I will not go down without a bloody fight.

Muses of Metaphors

Today my father came home. My mother and I met with the hospice nurse. It was difficult to leave my mother alone. She has called me four or five times since I left. My children and I will be spending the next couple of nights at my parent's home. But I am tired, so tired. Tired of holding back the tears. Tired of holding strong. Tired of feeling out of control. Just tired.

I hear Maya Angelou singing her poem Caged Bird as I search for the metaphors. The caged bird opens her mouth to sing. I open my mouth in hope my silence might be heard by the muses hidden beneath the layers and layers of heaviness upon my chest. If only metaphors would become my cocoon and lift me up and away. Breaking the bars that imprison my father from any substantial existence would be a gift from heaven. This gift cannot come too soon. Yet I will have to carry my father up to heaven to make sure he is not afraid. I just don't want him or my mother to be afraid. Oh, muses of metaphors where are you when I need the strength to carry on? Maya, can you be my muse? Sing your beautiful metaphors into my ears, into my soul, so I can hold on to the words of the wise, the poet.

I bang my wings against this cage hoping that soon my family will be freed of witnessing a slow death day after day. My wings bleed from the force they expel in anger towards the cards my father was dealt. He is a great man. I wish for him to be free of the disease which has control of his mind and body. Oh muses of metaphors please come to me, speak to me, guide me to live, to love, to be.

Finding Poetics in Journal-like Prose

I so want poetry to guide my fingertips to touch the liberating letters on the keyboard, but I find the metaphors are stuck somewhere. I am unable to wrap my mind around poetic images, which often have been my magic rug taking me from sadness or confusion to serenity or clarity. I have never experienced the event of a dying parent. Many people have and I seek them out to find connection and understanding. I suppose other's experiences with such a horrific situation have become my poetics, my means to pull myself up and out of this haze. I cannot seem to articulate how I feel, which is sometimes more frustrating than feeling.

I am like a mountain for my mother who is having to accept the unfortunate fate of her husband, a man she has been married to for almost 39 years. 39 years! I love my father. He has supported me unconditionally. But I cannot imagine losing a life partner of 39 years. My mother apologized to me yesterday for leaning on me. I am okay with her leaning on me because she needs someone as she transitions from my father to herself. I am saddened by her feelings of loneliness, a void no one can fill but herself.

If only I could find the poetics to express what rests in my core. If only I could release the suffocation and fly away like a hot air balloon. Instead, I act like a robot--calm, collected, mechanical. When alone I turn into rain, falling hard to the ground collecting into a puddle only to be stepped on by the foot of life.

Maybe if I journal like this, I will find my way through this crazy maze and come out more alive than when I entered. (My children are waking up; time to morph back into a mountain.)

Do Not Ask

Why?

A question children ask from an early age.

A question I used to ask every day.

A question I have ceased to ponder because

There are no satisfactory answers.

A question that is the cause of my mind fatigue.

A question that is incompatible with my father's rare, incurable disease.

So, I just do not ask.

I just don't ask.

Life's Lens

As my father lays quietly while poison

Drips into his blood to kill the

Other poison taking over his brain,

His personality, his being

A Chaplin enters and comments how

Such an experience can test one's faith.

Faith? Faith in god? Faith in life?

I do not question why this horror is

Happening, but rather what we are doing

About it.

I do not wonder why god, if he or she exists,

Has allowed such pain to exist.

I question how to love enough that my father

Does not fear his own existence.

I know about faith, for I believed in the concept

From a very young age.

But I no longer hold onto this concept

As a means to control my psychological situation.

I don't have time to feel pity,

For there is a man who has worked

Tirelessly so I can live a "good life" in need of my care.

Faith does not help me,

"Being present" for those in need

Makes an undesirable situation bearable.

I am not knocking those who look at life

Through a lens of faith.

It just is not how

I look at life.

So if you come into the room and see me

Sitting next to my sleeping father, do not

Project your Life's lens onto me;

Instead, listen or leave.