Wednesday, January 02, 2013

silver saddles and sunday parades

I worked in a bar when I was in college. One of the many characters who frequented Brannigan's was fond of saying life ain't all silver saddles and Sunday parades. Boy, he wasn't whistlin' Dixie.

I was on my way into the shower this morning and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My head is bald. I have a scar on one breast and a port sticking up like a knob on the other one. My nipples point in two different southwesterly and the other more distinctly north. They are not symmetrical. I have a scar under my left arm and looks like the flap on an envelope. Oh, hello gnarly old body.

I can go days and days and not think about cancer but then I have this moment in the mirror and it's like getting walloped with an open can of fuck. I was suddenly tired of hats and scarves, tired of drugs, tired of appointments, tired of all of it. Nothing was funny. I wanted to go back to bed.

Then I had an appointment this afternoon for a health assessment with a program called Exercise is Medicine. On my way out the door, I thought this will be a brief assessment as life suckage has reached a record high this morning.

But what do you know, just when you think you can never be cynical enough, things take a turn for the better. The sun comes out. You start singing and dancing again. And here comes the parade!

I meant to only go one time but they were all so happy and encouraging that I signed up for two times a week for a month and now I'm trying to convince Regis to join me. They have Sirius radio, they laugh a lot and everybody else is toting oxygen tanks so we'll be able to beat them in foot races, for sure.

Dude, it is all silver saddles and Sunday parades!


Anonymous said...

Open up a new can of whoop-ass every day!
Old neighbor and friend Deb

Teresa Saum said...

Great idea! A new can of whoop-ass every new mantra!