Starman

I started this for twitter, but it turned out to be too long. I kept the format, though.

Two years ago this week I was in the midst of all sorts of invasive and terrifying tests, resulting in a diagnosis of Stage IV colon cancer.
I was 43. I didn’t think I would have two years.
After chemo, radiation, surgery, and more chemo, I appear to be healthy.
Last spring, my mother died of cancer after a 15-year respite. The last time I saw her was when she helped me post-surgery.
She died while I was hooked to the chemo pump. Her memorial was a week and a half later, when I was recovered enough to manage it.
I drove home on Sunday, and started the next chemo session on Monday.
I already knew this week was going to be complicated. I’m thrilled I got two years, and probably more.
I’m sad my mother can’t celebrate with me, and I with her. “Sad” seems such a short and inadequate word.
I’m angry that I had to endure this at all.
I started the day by checking twitter at 4am and discovering David Bowie had died. He knew he was dying, he’d known for 18 months.
David Bowie chose to spend that time making his last album. He knew what he was doing, and he did it the way he wanted to.
I’ve had six more months than he did.
I don’t know whether to go back to bed, or to work my ass off.