Joy Without Words
By way of a 1,000 word essay
“Words, words, words” said Hamlet in response to a question from Polonius asking “What do you read, my lord?' To Hamlet, words had lost their meaning in the face of a great moral challenge and how he should move forward with decisive action after the murder of his father.
I've been swimming in words this past year, trying to find meaning in them to understand my life with cancer, stringing words together like thoughts on a necklace in the hopes of conveying a story. I saw writing as a treatment for my radiation-damaged brain, exercising the neurons, retaining what I could of healthy cells and retraining what may have been damaged. If I can write a 1,000 word essay to help solve my radiation-induced fatigue and at the same time connect with others in our shared life experience, I think I can find a path to healing.
I'm exhausted by the words I've had to learn to communicate with doctors. If the language of Shakespeare inhabits the right side of my brain, then the jargon of science fills my left. Blending the two in a windowless exam room with an oncologist that has spent most of their life studying cancer has become somewhat of performance art for me — being prepared enough to show I understand the nature of my cancer type and treatment, and artistic enough to reveal my spirit, my will to live, through metaphor and anecdotes from my life. I used to pride myself on preparation and lists of questions. Now I enter the clinic in a meditative state, an actor in “a play within a play,” ready to orate as needed.
Annie and I recently dog sat for good friends of ours. Ringo is a regal old gent, 14 years old and kind as he is wise. Barnaby, our beloved rescue, died one year ago after spending eleven years with us. We miss Barnaby and Ringo fills the void on occasion. Ringo reminded me of how a dog lives in the moment, using mostly body language, vocalization and, of course, the wagging of its tail to express happiness. Barnaby was a rough boy, spending his first two years unloved and unsocialized. He must have bitten someone in the family and was exiled to a yard without further attention. His hair grew into a gnarled mass of painful dreadlocks. He bit me too, in the beginning, not sure who to trust. It took two more years to get him to fully relax and find his purpose helping me through cancer. Annie would leave for work very early and Barnaby and I would spend the morning together. I would take him for a walk up a long hill to the park near our house. He would wait patiently as I would stop several times to catch my breath. He seemed to understand the walk was just as beneficial for me as it was for him. Once home, he would run to the kitchen when he heard the dry kibble fill his metal bowl. He would sit and wait until I said “okay” before he began to eat. As soon as I settled he would settle right beside me, usually on my chest when I took a nap on the couch.
When I was diagnosed with brain metastases last April we decided it was best to return to USC Norris Cancer Center in Los Angeles for treatment. Since we had relocated to Bend, Oregon it was a big commitment. And what would we do with Barnaby since he couldn't live with us in our friends apartment? As if taken from the 1980 film “Resurrection” with Ellen Burstyn and Sam Shepard, Barnaby suddenly and rapidly succumbed to a quick death from brain cancer, as if he was absorbing the illness from me while sacrificing himself. He lived 13 years.
When we think about Barnaby we often think about the day he came to live with us. We lived in a cottage house in Hope Ranch in Santa Barbara with a horse, chickens and two Rhodesian Ridgebacks on the property. His rescue parents drove him up from Hollywood where he was found wandering around Melrose Avenue. I captured the joy that Barnaby felt that day in a video as he raced around the paddock, free from the painful dreadlocks cloaking his spirit, embracing a full sprint as fast as he legs would carry him. He seemed to smile from ear to ear.
When we recently got the good news of my most recent scans I was at a loss for words. Although a small tumor remains in a lymph node, my leptomeningeal metastases in my brain and spine is stable and we bought another three months. Annie reminded me of the 2 minute video of Barnaby and that there are many ways to express happiness. I share the video here so you might experience his joy, and ours, and celebrate with us without “words, words, words.” I think The Bard would understand.
