Guess what? This morning I underestimated the cashier at Walmart’s level of vengeance. Let me explain. Since going through sexy breast cancer treatments I’m becoming more and more self-aware, selective and efficient with my time. For example, if I start reading a book and I don’t like it I stop. I don’t force myself to plow through literature that doesn’t interest me, or watch a movie that sucks like Birdman (sorry but really – come on, brutal, it was like watching The Blair Witch Project, only it was super artsy with a phenomenal cast – not enjoyable), the same goes for tv series. My time is valuable (as is everyone’s) and precious more than ever now. I don’t only attribute this to cancer, I also believe it’s an age thing as well. After you hit your 40s you evolve in unexpected ways. I have many wonderful girlfriends that I cherish dearly and when I get the chance to chat, like live over the telephone (ok cellphone, truth be told!), I indulge because it’s rare and important. So, this morning I was doing my favourite activity – grocery shopping – and I called my friend to check in and we ended up chatting for a long time. I went through the cash put my phone down for a minute said ‘hello’ to the nice cashier and gave her my bags, smiled, and then continued to chat with my girlfriend as I helped her load my bags. Is that rude? I use to think so, but I didn’t ignore her. I try to be polite with everyone, especially to people in the customer service industry. This was how I was brought up and it’s common courtesy. Simple. When people are rude to me I try to ignore it and carry on because one of my mottos in life is ‘rise above’, oh and I learnt a new one ‘you can’t fix stupid’, so good right?!. Well, when I got home this morning blissfully unloading the groceries each one of my six bags had a postcard-sized add for a dental office….hahahahaha… At first I was getting all rage-y and then I thought about her face and thought ok, you got me. Whatever. No big deal. Touché.
As the saying goes, we are all ticking time-bombs when it comes to the inevitability of death. So for as long as I can, I’d just rather be the tick than the bomb. I’ve got a rigid grip on the tick, but if I have to face the bomb then I’ll gently let go of the tick and start murdering the bomb with my bare hands. If the grim reaper has balls I’m going to squish them so hard that he will take his little scythe wielding bony ass and go away to come back when I’m old, grey and ready. Would I call what I’ve gone through and still going through fighting a battle? Nope. To me fighting a battle is when you go to war and try to avoid hunger, sleep deprivation, chemical weapons, bullets, bombs, bad weather, rape, depression, addiction, isolation, loneliness, and so on. What I did was go to a world class cancer centre equivalent to a private lounge at the airport, minus the pretzels, espresso’s, draft beer, and get hooked up to the poison by really caring hospital staff. And mostly I tried not to forget all the drug instructions they were explaining, which was a ton. I didn’t fight a battle and I am not on a journey. I don’t like those terms and that’s my personal opinion. Others have their own and I respect them. Great. Mine is simply a story. And everybody has one or they are lucky enough not to. Am I jealous of the fortunate ones? Hell yes.
Recovery still going well. Thank you to all who check in on me. Send me nice messages. Are nice to my children. There is no word to describe my gratitude.