Day 97

Growing up, my home had all the hallmarks of instability: too young parents, poverty, alcoholism, depression. I longed for some bedrock upon which to build my life. More than anything I wanted to bring order to the chaos. Even as a child, I was neat and organized and diligent and hard working, at times obsessively so. By the time I was in my twenties, I had come to realize that while I could control my actions, I couldn't control the outcomes and I certainly couldn't control other people. I felt small and insignificant: helpless. I sought support from groups that met in church basements. Adult children, we called ourselves. Never was a name more apt. Around the same time, I started reading about the occult. My friend Donna and I would visit psychics when we could afford it. When we were broke, which was most of the time, we would bring out our own tarot cards and attempt to read the obscure messages of the Hanged Man or the High Priestess. We smiled at the future when the Lovers appeared and cringed in response to Death. We wanted so much to believe that the future was already written, that we could divine it and prepare ourselves. Somewhere along the way I stopped believing in prophecy or magic, but I never stopped longing for certainty and stability. One thing is certain about living with cancer: nothing is certain. The doctor says: Your cancer hasn't spread with a tone and inflection that suggests: well, probably not. A course of treatment is laid out only to be changed later. Office workers and nurses convey information that is changed at the will of doctors. Dates, locations, instructions, plans and protocol are all tentative. One has to learn to be comfortable with uncertainty. Ah great, another fucking growth opportunity.