ON THE SANDSTORMS OF MY LIFE

"Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

An you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about."
— Haruki Murakami (Kafka on the Shore)

Thanksgiving was spent alone, curled up in a tight ball of fever and illness.

My children were alone as well, Elizabeth in Korea, and Michael in a bar in San Diego, where he celebrated his one year anniversary in the navy with a friend from boot-camp who he ran into unexpectedly.

My extended family spent the day in Alabama tending to the details of saying goodbye to my aunt, my mother's last remaining family member of any consequence, who passed away early Monday morning, after a seven week struggle with cancer.

Ah cancer. The great equalizer. Everyone gasps when hearing its name in connection with their life.

It is the opponent we each hope to never have to face, and yet most, in one way or another, will.

I am at the end of my battle with this Goliath, on the other side of this sandstorm in my life, and I am changed. In ways, both small and large, I am no longer the person who first stepped in, closed her eyes and plugged her ears. I made it through, and the person who stepped out from the storm is not the same who stepped in.

The changes are all encompassing, physical, emotional, and mental.

My arms seem permanently bruised from needles inserted to deliver the medicines meant to cure me. An angry line of sores march down my tongue from tip to throat. My hair is thin, dull, and lifeless, but, I do still have hair, small wonder. I am thirty-eight pounds lighter, which trust me, is not a bad thing, and I have lost all feeling in my feet.

My tolerance for BS is at an all time low. I no longer posses the ability to smile silently while watching as others are stepped on or treated with disrespect. I can no longer hear what others say, I can only see what they do. I've lost my patience with those who are careless with the feelings of others.

As I said at the start of this post, Thanksgiving was not good this year. In fact, it was the worst I've ever known, yet, in the mist of setbacks, death of a loved one, separation from the ones I love most, and silence, I found more to be grateful for this year than any other.

I was sick. I was lonely. I hurt. I felt alone. I WAS alone. I mourned. I was sad. But, I was still here!

I AM STILL HERE!

I live in a small room in my parent's home, but I am able to volunteer with the homeless instead of living with them.

I am separated from my children, a reality that can bring me to my knees some days, but my children are leading lives they love, taking pride in work they find fulfilling. They are healthy and reasonably happy, and though I am separated from them, it is life which separates us, not death.

My work is hard and the pay is obnoxiously low, with no benefits, but in the middle of one of the worst economic times, I have a place to go Monday through Friday and a pay check at the end of each two weeks time. And though the work is hard, it is important and brings to me a sense of purpose and the knowledge that in very small ways, in very small lives, I do make a difference.

I am sometimes disappointed by my friends, but never in them.

Life, with all its painful, horrid moments is amazing and wonderful, and as I laid curled, alone in the dark Thanksgiving day, I gave thanks, because the biggest change this storm has made is given me an internal recognition of just how much we are given every single day of our lives.

Even the ones that really, really suck.

I hope you find much to give thanks for every day of your life.