And God said "GET UP!"

I bet none of my friends knew I died.  It happened about two years ago and this imposter has been keeping up appearances – mowing my yard and posting on my blog sporatically to make people think I was doing well.

Well, I wasn’t.  I was a total fraud, only pretending to be alive.  I’d been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer several years ago and had  just been sitting around waiting on my ride to a better place.  In truth I had already died and was stinking up the place.

How would you feel if you’d been run over by a two ton truck of guilt, shame and a bad case of PP (people pleasing)? It was all to the detriment of what I really wanted to be doing with my pitiful life.  And time was running out. Frankly, all that anxiety and chronic regurgitation of old failures and disappointments was probably what made me sick in the first place.

Someone (one of the few I still talk to) woke me up this morning with a bucket of ice water;  Or maybe I wet the bed, I’m  not sure.   But there floating up on the ceiling amongst the collecting dust and cobwebs was God.  And listen, He was steamed.  He told me to snap out of it because He doesn’t want me up there poisoning His heaven with my turgid attitude and pernicious lifestyle.

He was right. I had just up and quit living and didn’t even like my own company.  I buried my cell phone in the bottom of my laundry basket each morning and checked it once a day, rarely returning calls. I moved my favorite chair into a space at the back of my house where no human ever goes and didn’t answer the door while watching season after season of Netflix.  May I also say that Netflix is a poor excuse for living?

Margaret Ann called me once a day and yelled “Where are You? I’m worried about you.”  I couldn’t rustle up the energy to dial her back.

Then I got this message which mysteriously appeared in an email.  It was addressed to the woman “who was the first to  get naked, howl at the moon and jump into the sea.” (Something I have never done but always wanted to.) 

Wait. There was more. lots more.

This is for the woman who seeks relentless joy; knows how to laugh with her whole soul; the woman who speaks to strangers because she has no fear in her heart.  For the woman who drinks coffee at midnight and wine in the morning. and dares you to question it… who doesn’t waste time following society’s pressures to exist behind a white picket fence.  The woman who creates wildly, unbalanced blog posts surrounded by a ferocious fog most of the time. This – is for you.” 

I must tell you the above was loosely translated from a poem by Janne Robinson.  How it got to me I’ll never know, but I think I saw God give me a little wink.  I can’t be sure.  I challenge anyone facing health problems to stand tall and begin to do all those things you love to do and were too afraid to do because of your conventional narrow minded attitudes.

After writing the above in my journal, it was still dark enough outside to go out and howl at the moon. I went out on the porch wearing only a towel and squeeked out a wee little breathy howl.  It wasn’t much but it was a start.

—A guest post by Emily Jones
See more of Emily's writings at thedeludeddiva.com

Emily Jones: Celebrating Another Year

No, it’s not my birthday – thank heavens. Birthdays seem to be stacking up like an obscene pile of carbs at the International House of Pancakes. But I am grateful for every one.

I just realized I have a survived a year with cancer. Every day since last August is a bonus on the Merry-Go-Round of life. Frankly, I thought I wouldn’t make it to Christmas, because they hinted that ovarian cancer was a death sentence.

It isn’t. In fact, it can be very positive if you look at it sideways and squint a little bit.
I’ve found that I’ve cherished each day far beyond those of my former shallow life. I’ve seen spectacular sunsets with my neighbors on the back porch – and sunrises on my front porch all by myself. Never have I known such peace, happiness, and freedom.

I don’t know why exactly, but I wouldn’t trade a day of the last year for my former life which I lived on auto-pilot.

Note: this month I will round up my “girl gang” Carolyn, Marie, Ruthie, Nancy and Beth to join us on the ride down Route 66. The class of 65 is turning 66. No way. Middle age is creeping up on us but we are too fabulous to notice.

Laugh-Riot Grrrls to the Rescue

"What's the funniest thing that happened to you this week?"

That’s the way most conversations begin for a group of my high school friends who get together at least once a month for some laughter therapy.  We don’t really plan it as “medicinal,” but the feeling of total relaxation after we whoop it up for an afternoon is a testament to the stress-reducing properties of laughter.

We guffaw in the most unladylike manner as we recall our friend who accidentally swallowed her hearing aid battery instead of her osteoporosis pill. We collapse onto the floor laughing about another friend who grabbed a jacket out of his garage to attend a fancy cocktail party.  At the party someone asked if he knew he had a dirt dauber nest hanging on his sleeve.

That same friend accidentally maced himself while driving a borrowed car.  He thought the innocuous little can on the passenger seat was breath spray. (Ha, Ha, giggle, snort.)  

Then there’s the classmate who accidentally dropped a contact lens into the potato salad at a church picnic.  It never was recovered.  

Let’s face it, life can be pretty funny. These stories are valuable little gems we carry in our memories to be pulled up when the world crowds in on us or you get a bad CT scan. 

American journalist Norman Cousins came down with a fatal illness and was given one month to live.  He checked out of the hospital and into a hotel where he treated himself with megadoses of Vitamin C, chased with hours of laughter induced by old Marx Brothers films. 

"I made the joyous discovery that ten minutes of genuine belly laughter had a healing anesthetic effect and would give me at least two hours of pain-free sleep," reported Cousins. Long story short, he went on to live for 26 more years.

Laughter is that delicious sound that occurs involuntarily and bubbles from deep in your soul. It can sometimes leave you breathless and in tears.  I wish someone would package it.

Look, we have split the atom to the nth degree, put men on the moon and mapped our DNA, but no one has figured out how to give us laughter on demand.  Personally, I always get a kick out of America’s Funniest Videos.  With Rebel and Lucky Dawg at my side we laugh hysterically  – even Rebel, who is a bulldog with a perpetual scowl.

We especially love the clips involving pets, small children and people falling down at their weddings.  Ha ha ha, cares forgotten. 

Be forewarned, laughter is highly contagious and may add years to your life.  I guess that makes my friends and me about 125 by now. 

Emily Jones is a retired journalist and ovarian cancer survivor who edits The Deluded Diva, a blog for bouncing baby boomers racing retirement.  She invites you to stop by www.deludeddiva.com.

When the curse of cancer becomes a blessing

I just experienced what I hope will be my last chemotherapy treatment for a long, long time. (Forever would be even better.)  Some cancers creep up slowly; others pounce.  Mine swept in like a hungry tiger while I was looking the other way, bemused by commonplace things like thinning hair, loss of memory and just generally growing older. 

Chemo resolved all those complaints without so much as an apology.  It took ALL my hair, left me in a brain fog that made me drop everything I pick up, and it gave me the sudden desire to live to become a little old lady! Funny how that works.

But what has been most shocking was finding that a life threatening illness can be the catalyst for more blessings than you can ever imagine. One of the most serendipitous moments I’ve experienced was last weekend when my community celebrated its annual Relay for Life.  People of all ages came out to honor their loved ones who have died of cancer and to show support for those who are surviving and fighting the disease. 

During the opening “walk of survivors,” I stumbled around the track in awe that perfect strangers would come out on a rainy blustery Friday evening to cheer on a lot of people they may not even know.  I had participated before, but never with such a personal stake in the value of the event which annually raises millions of dollars to fight cancer.  My compliments and appreciation to my friends, Brian and Diane, and all the volunteers and workers from the American Cancer Society who spent months recruiting teams and planning a flawless event.

At dawn today, I sat out on my back porch and breathed in the combined fragrance of maturing mint and rosemary while making a list of all the good things that have occurred as a direct result of illness.  I won’t go into all the minor details - like losing unwanted pounds without a diet, getting a great head of hair (which I hang on the bedpost over night), and  falling in love with those heretofore dreaded green vegetables. The latter is thanks to Margaret Ann Wood, a restaurateur and longtime friend, who introduced me to Goya seasonings which can make the lowly canned green bean taste like the nectar of the Gods. 

The Big C also gave me a bizarre sense of humor.  I still chuckle at the look on that truck driver’s face when I was pumping gas during high winds which blew my wig right off my head and carried it across the parking lot.  He stared in dismay, probably confused by the smiley face a friend had drawn with magic marker on the BACK of my head.  I also got a kick out of the long black “Cher” wig my son sent me as a joke.  One morning I went door to door pretending to be an encyclopedia salesperson and not one neighbor recognized me.  Come on people, who sells encyclopedias these days?  

The greatest gift has been the deeper relationships formed with my family and friends who I often took for granted; the absolutely religious experience of feeling good again after being under the weather;  learning not to judge others who may be suffering from their own set of stressors; and the realization that material things will never provide lasting fulfillment.  That lesson was way overdue, but I’m a slow learner and like they say, it takes what it takes.

Someone once said that the hardest arithmetic to master is that which enables us to count our blessings, but when we do, they seem to multiply.  Oh, and here’s something else to look forward to.  I heard mosquitoes will take one bite out of a chemo patient and fly off to wash their mouths out with soap, spitting all the way.  Ah, Ha! 

Emily Jones is a retired journalist who edits a blog site for bouncing baby boomers who are entering retirement.  She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer in November, 2012.  Check out her blog at deludeddiva.com.