I was at a hafla a couple of weeks ago – a party with music, food and bellydancing.  It was held in the beautiful backyard of my dance teacher.  I had a hard time deciding if I would attend the party: I hadn’t danced all year, and felt very reticent about the dance, the people, the visiting.  Parties are always hard for me because I’m so awkward in social situations – and an event with dancing makes me feel even more awkward.  And then there was the matter of what to wear: I don’t really have an outfit, and most of the other women have lots of glittery, beautiful, sparkly outfits.  And then there was my physical exhaustion.

I’ve been doing too much, and really paying for it.  June is a busy month anyway – sports day, field trips, clubs, dance recitals, piano recitals, graduation, and work.  I worked in June.  Probably not a smart move, but at the time, I thought I could do it.  And I did.  But I was more tired than I thought I would be.  And I was discouraged by that.  I think I jumped back into life, right into the deep end, and I’ve been frantically treading water trying to keep my head above the water line.

So when it came to the hafla, I just didn’t know what to do.

And then I remembered how kind and supportive my dance friends had been: the gifts and cards, the notes and messages.  And I remembered how much I love to dance – how much I love the music – how much I love my Shannon and how I love to watch her dance – and I decided to go, but I thought I would just wear street clothes.

But as I was getting ready, I looked at my dance things, and I remembered that I did have a crop top, and some sparkly things.   But I have a really big scar on my belly, and I feel self-conscious about it.  

I stood in my room for a few minutes, holding the top and wondering.  And then a thought flashed across my consciousness: ” I almost died this year.  I can wear any freakin’ thing I want to wear!”

Later, at the party, when people were saying how glad they were that I came, I told them about my struggle earlier in the evening, and when I came to that point, and shouted, “I almost died this year…”  there was a sudden hush.

I said, “I guess I probably should stop saying that.  It makes people feel uncomfortable.”

Everyone hastened to say that it didn’t make them uncomfortable at all, but they were lying.  I could tell by the looks on their faces.

My teacher said, “No, I think it’s good that you say it.  It’s true, and you need to say it… but maybe you should change it around and say, ‘I didn’t die this year.’”

Brilliant.

I DIDN’T die this year.  Now THAT’S something to dance about.

 

After I spoke at grad, one of the moms came and thanked me.  She said that now that her last child had graduated, she and her husband were going to take some time to relax and have fun.  She said, “You know, sometimes you just have to take time to dance.”  And she glanced at me meaningfully.  ”I hope you’re going to take some time to dance this summer.”

Yes.

 

I said to my dancing friends that I felt that I needed to do something to mark this year.  Something to celebrate the year, and bring some sort of closure, or something.  I don’t really know how to express it.  One of my friends from the cancer clinic is a  kayaker with lots of experience navigating rivers.  She pictures her experience with cancer as a journey in which she has had to navigate through the “rapids” of radiation, and the pain of recovery, towards the quiet waters of wellness.  She is making a quilt that represents this journey.  It’s a beautiful thought, and I’m sure the making of the quilt is therapeutic and healing. 

Quilting is not my thing.  I’m not really sure what my thing is.  But I have been thinking about how I would like to mark the year.  And when I said so to my dancing friends, one said, “You could get your eyebrow pierced.”

No. That’s not it.

Another squealed, “Oooh!  You could get a tattoo!”

No.  That’s not it either.

In view of these suggestions, I didn’t want to admit that I just wanted to  buy a pair of shoes.

Not really.

It could be that this blog is the thing that brings meaning to my year.

It’s been my way of dealing with the whole experience all along.  Maybe it’s enough to think about it, write about it, share it in some small way.

I don’t know.

My room mate from Victoria gave me a scrapbook and encouraged me to scrapbook the experience.  She has photos and things from her time at the clinic, and she is going to scrapbook.

I’m not so good at keeping things.  But maybe I’ll scrapbook.

 

I don’t really know where I’m going with this post.  I have a lot of thoughts swirling through my mind, and I’m having a hard time sorting through them all.  I went for my follow-up in Victoria last week, and I think it upset me more than I realized at the time.  I keep fooling myself into thinking that it’s over, and it’s not.  It’s okay that it’s not over, and I’m used to having these thought hovering on the edges of my mind.  I’m resigned to it in a way; but when they are forced to the forefront again, it’s jarring, and it takes me a few days to find equanimity again.  Little vague ribbons of sadness and loss drift around me, hindering me. 

 

As I read what I’ve written, I realize that it sounds as though I think I need to be moving ahead in some way. But I think I have it all wrong.  Who says I have to make any progress at all?  Who says I have to be moving ahead? Forward? Who says I have to put anything BEHIND me at all?

Hmmm.  I’ll have to think about this.