My Dad has Cancer. My Dad has Cancer. My Dad has Cancer. I find myself saying this to myself with my internal voice. Throughout the day, each day. I'm in the middle of listening to someone and oops there it goes My Dad has Cancer. I'm walking down the street in the rain, enjoying the cool sensation of raindrops on my skin, the wet pavement between my toes and sandals. Ooops there it goes again My Dad has Cancer. I say it in different tones in different ways. Imagining the emotion with the statement. How is one supposed to say it when I say it out loud to tell people? I have an ongoing dialogue as I am speaking. If I say it without crying, will they think me unfeeling, cold? If I cry can they handle it? How do you tell someone to explain why you might be distracted, disorganised and scattered without playing the "cancer card". Should I tell people now or wait until I know more? Will I give a fuck when I know more? Will I care what they think at that point? My friends who will support me- I feel awkward. They have enough on their plate. How do I explain that I want them to know but want to be alone. I want to watch them from the sidelines. I want to observe life happening but don't want to participate. I'll just stand over here and think to myself "My Dad has Cancer". Maybe if I keep saying it to myself I will believe it.
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The Drum, My Heart After I told her, What happened that day, She handed me the drum, Skin stretched taught across the frame, Twisted fibres webbed across the back, Like a shield, Like the sun, Fingers curled upon the web, Stick with swaddled tip in other hand, I close my eyes, Feel the vibrations once again, Each strike reverberates across my body, Bounces off the bodies around me, Back to me, Boom……Boom……Boom, Hit me in the chest, Into the heart, ribcage, solar plexus, Boom…….Boom…….Boom, Deep vibrations through my soul, In and out, around and back again, Boom…….Boom……..Boom, Deeply grounding, Connecting me to the earth, To my roots, Boom……Boom…….Boom, Breathe…….Boom, Breathe……..Boom, Breathe……..Boom, Boom. Feel your heartbeat, Boom……Boom…….Boom, Notice how your heart aches, Yet continues to beat, Boom……Boom…….Boom. It's been a hell of a week. Mass shooting in Orlando, child drowned by alligator, singer shot by fanatic, MP shot and killed by bigot racist nationalist. Just when you think your heart can't take anymore, that it will explode. So much pain and love for those affected.
My heart making two beats Lub-dub, Lub-dub, Lub-dub. One Pain-One Love, One Pain- One Love. But then The News. The news delivered in the remote voice of my brother. Too far away to be accompanied by a hug. My little brother shouldn't have to deliver this news to his big sister. Summoning all his strength and muster to deliver the news in a calm, clear voice. To not let the voice crack, break, roll off into tears. The News. About my father. My father, invincible, immortal rock. "Dad got his results back" Audible Gulp. " He has cancer of the Oesophagus." "What?" voice small and distant. "Are you kidding?" Of course he wouldn't joke about that. Tests two weeks ago. Biopsy was undisclosed. Phone call. Still went on holiday to south of France. Shocked. My brother "You know how I was Sis. What got me through was being positive. Dad wants to be like that. He just wants to get his head down and get on with it." My words or his? He wants to keep going to work and be as normal as possible. My words or his? "Did he ask you to tell me?" "He said he didn't know how to tell you. I said I would." As I write, Radiohead-Full stop blasting, raling, coasting, rushing, pushing everything out. Instrumental drowning out. Rushing in my ears. Not real. "How do we learn to love how something/someone needs to be loved, not how we think we want/should love".
Vicki Kelly in class June 18th 2016 Holding Hummingbirds in my hands
I asked my husband if I could share my writing with him. After all these words, it seems odd that this man, who I have come to be even more thankful for, has not heard them. Yes, he said, but first, let me tell you about a dream I had last night. I dreamt you were catching hummingbirds. They came to you and I watched you hold each one in cupped hands. Then, one by one, you released them gently. Reading Dwellings, A Different Yield (Hogan 1995) my mind drifts to a dream of a bear I keep having. The Bear frequents my dreams, follows me, chases me, pursues me. Sometimes vicious, other times placid. I never know for sure, does the bear pose as threat or protector. I have come to view the bear as my anger, my rage. Will it protect me, warn off threat or will it devour me and crunch up my bones. The Bear The bear frequents my dreams, Follows, chases, pursues me, Sometimes vicious, Other times placid, Poses as threat or protector, Warn off threat, Or devour me, Crunching up my bones, Sucking on lament. She woke up
After 14 years of beatings, she woke up. She contacted a solicitor, told them her plan. She told her father what had been happening. The next day they found a small flat across from the park, away from Him. Her father put down a deposit and the first month’s rent. The Landlord said “No Pets”. So she tearfully advertised for a new home for her beloved Pitbull-Staffy Cross. She contacted the estate agent. “I’m leaving you” she told him. “You’ll never dare” he sneered. But she did. The house went up for sale. Finally, she walked across town with rubbish bags of her few possessions. She walked to freedom, past the statue where my great uncle died for freedom, past the hospital where I was born and the park where I used to play with my cousins. Finally, she walked away. My Brave Mum. As I listen to the music Fullness of Wind, Variation on the Canon in D major by Johann Pachelbel and I read Linda Hogan's "All my relations" an account of a sweat lodge. I am drawn to tears. Such beauty in music and words (1995, p39-41) "Wind arrives from the four directions. It has moved through caves and breathed through our bodies. It is the same air our elk have inhaled, air that passed through the lungs of the grizzly bear. The sky is there with all the stars. Themselves have gone back to nothing. It is a place grown intense and holy. It is a place of immense community and of humbled solitude. We sit together in our aloneness and speak. one at a time, our deepest language of need, hope, loss and survival. We remember that 'all things are connected.." Hogan, Linda. (1995). Dwellings: A Spiritual History of the Living World. New York, NY: Simon & Schuster Inc. |
Helen Kennett-BaconOriginally from South Yorkshire in England, I've lived with my husband Neil in Kitsilano, Vancouver for 10 years. We are fur-parents to our French bulldog Dave, I am a Registered Psychiatric Nurse specialising in ADHD. Archives
August 2016
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