The List

K is in  pain, short of breath, and easily fatigued. Nevertheless, she has a 21st Century to-do list that only grows.  Every entry is urgent, for obvious reasons. But is every entry important? That's in the eye of the beholder.

Due to her's limitations, The List progresses slowly, and it draws us all in. I help. E helps. Sometimes we can help but don't want to. Sometimes we want to but can't. We fall in and out of synch with The List's demands, just as we would in Normal Life. But  this is not normal life, this is Cancer Life, and in Cancer Life, every success or (more often) failure carries an exaggerated emotional load: satisfaction, guilt, frustration, fear, regret.

Because The List feeds on our life force,  E and I are constantly second guessing it's contents. Why this hinge oiling? Why that gift giving? Why is The List so precise in its expectations? Particularly, why does The List demand so much from Karen, when she has so little to give? Couldn't we just burn it?

I question The List silently, because I have learned that nothing good comes from challenging it. My own list is jealous of The List, and I am learning to manage that relationship. E is a teenager. All lists are anathema  to his way of life. He knows that he should give in to The List, because this is Cancer Life, but sometimes he shows his frustration, which leads to recrimination, and presumably guilt.

The List and its consequences dominate our days, which is not entirely bad. Other interactions manage to sneak into the gaps, or ride along on the back List items. We watch an old movie together, snug on the couch, enjoying family time. No less enjoyable just because it is Listed.  We sneak out for Sunday Starbucks breakfast, just me me K, because The List takes Sunday morning off.  We watch Chelsea on TiVo because The List has already sucked all the energy out of her.

I admit it, I am a list-driven person myself. I am Getting Things Done with my 7 Habits whenever I can. I have come to understand how to purge the unimportant weeds from my list. I've learned to put resting and living on my list. I know that my list will always be growing. That's a fact of life. Of life.

I imagine that a different conscious or subconscious logic drives K's list. How could she die when there is so much shit on The List still needing to be done?

Long Live The List!

Jeff's First Law

It's the law:

There's no limit to how fucked you can be.

This rule first came into sharp focus between Thanksgiving 2010 and Thanksgiving 2012. My wife's mother died and then I lost my job in the same week, people would say "at least it can't get any worse." Then the breast cancer diagnosis came in. Then my son got suspended from school. Then my dad died. Then my father in law died -- all in a period of basically two years.

Conclusion? There is no natural limit to the arrival rate of crises in a modern life. That's the "Full Catastrophe." Not something unexpected or cruel, just the statistical result of numerous unrelated, semi-random processes working independently.

From a 30 second Google search, it appears that the "full catastrophe" was first articulated by Zorba the Greek (now I need to watch the movie):

Am I not a man? And is a man not stupid? I'm a man, so I married. Wife, children, house, everything. The full catastrophe. 

You see? Just normal life. Jon Kabat-Zinn picked up the term for the title of his book on mindfulness and stress reduction. When I can follow his suggestions, and get myself to accept the full catastrophe mindfully, not trying to fight it and push it away, I at least don't add (too much) to my own pain.

Whenever I hear someone say "you're due for some good luck now," I remember Law #1, and I remain mindful. I try not to get invested in the narrative of "it can't get any worse," because I know that's not true.

I had written much of this post before I got K's call yesterday that she had been in a car accident (no major injuries, except to the car and the flow of the day). So I just remembered the law, took a deep breath, re-routed my day and hung out with my wife in a coffee shop while waiting for a tow truck. Not so bad, really, this so-called catastrophe.

You may glean from my tone that K and I have moved on a long way in the past two weeks. That's what this journey is like. Just wait a few days. Things will change. But don't assume it will be for the better. Remember Law #1.

Little Boxes

I have a short morning commute (for which I am grateful) and a short Spottify playlist to go with it: Pete Seeger's version of Little Boxes, RHCP's Snow [Hey Oh!], and U2's It's a Beautiful Day.  Not very creative, but we're not here to critique my DJing skills, we're here to talk about Little Boxes.

I initially chose it to comfort me in my chaotic life, because it makes "normal" sound so banal and unappealing. I may have a life of complexity, pain, love, and surprises; but it sure beats the ticky-tacky conveyor belt. On a strong day, I listen to Pete and embrace the weird and wonderful full catastrophe of my life.

At the moment, with my energy down and the catastrophe in full swing, the song struck a more wistful resonance. Wouldn't it be lovely to lie on a chaise longue waving languidly from the parade float of the 1950s American Dream? Sunny so-Cal and perfect pastel tract houses. Golf,  martinis, summer camp and university. No cancer, no side effects, no teenagers, no college applications! That's so bad?

A strong folk song that supports me either way.