Why I sing--His

Why I sing. Today, I sat two feet from heaven, singing in the sun. The heaven today, as in other days when I sing, is the inspiration that is my wife. While undergoing treatment for cancer, my wife is in as strong a voice as ever and sharing her passion with the world. I'm privileged to sing and share life with her. In the shade we sat for two hours and played and sang to folks who were walking around. Who does that while battling cancer? Those who continue to live. Music is salve for our souls as well as others. Here are a few instances of my wife's impact through music: With Linda singing by my side at a private concert, I've watched a Romanian general brought to tears by our rendition of "Let It Be." At an assisted living facility, I've watched a non-speaking patient start to sing. Today, a little boy stopped in mid gait and turned around and started dancing to our music. Linda handed him a tambourine. Then he insisted on hanging around to do another song and requested the washboard. I once sang with a Grand Ole Opry star who told me that 90 percent of the work of a musician is interacting with people. It's a people job and I watch in amazement as my wife interacts with folks at our gigs. And then I get to sing with Linda.

A change in perspective--His

They say perception is what matters. Perception, however, relies on what other people think.

Perspective comes from within. For the past four months, I’ve begun to live a life of perspective.

The impetus came with the diagnosis of my wife’s Stage 4-B uterine cancer. In the battle with cancer, there are only four numbers—one through four—and the higher the number, the worst the news. To many on the outside, the perception is beyond hopeless. “Just pack it in and move on,” it’ll never get any better.

It was that way with me for two or three weeks into this journey. Then, something happened. Through  prayer, reading and research, I came across something that gave me the right perspective and turned my mind and heart inward instead of outward. Perception erodes under the torrent of perspective.

The starting point came for me when my wife was sitting in a chair and we were crying while we remembered all the wonderful times we’ve had in our 15 years together. “Go get the guitars,” she said. “I want to see if I can sing.” I did, and we made love through music for 45 minutes. My perspective of music changed that day from, “look at me singing” turned into “I’m singing for you.”

Perspective also reveals herself in odd places. I sat outside a bar in a Memphis neighborhood on a hot April day, eating French fries and drinking beer with a friend when she came whistling on the breeze. “You know,” my friend said, “most people don’t realize the power of prayer. When they say, ‘I’ll pray for you,’ it’s more of a platitude than a reality.” My perspective on prayer has become very practical to the point when my wife says she’s hurting, I will pray for her right then and there—and place my hands on her head while I’m doing so.

I suppose the biggest revelation that perspective has given me is the ability to ask for the unseen. In studying the various Bible scriptures on Jesus’ healing miracles, I ran across another perspective: Never did Jesus just go up and heal someone. The miracles were first questions, then answers. “Can you and will you heal me?”  And it is more than okay to admit your wavering belief while sincerely wanting more belief.  Just as it was in scriptures I might also say, “Lord I believe, please help my unbelief.” Mark 9:24

 

 

Today is the first day of the rest of your... --Hers

I am now in month four of CD, (Cancer Diagnosis).   I have had four infusions of chemo, many bottles of  a controlled substance that I am told has a street value of $50 a pill,  I have lost hair, EVERYWHERE...and I am 40 pounds lighter.  The latter is kinda a bonus.   I also know what chemo brain is, and despite the jokes, it is a bummer.  I really don't know why the whole walking around in a fog is attractive to drug users.  I find it frustrating and scary.  Luckily, it doesn't last but a few days.

In the last three months, I have seen my cancer marker numbers reduce down.  (CA-125 Numbers) This is good news!  And time for another mind shift.

Mind Shift one  (1) came when I was diagnosed.   "What do you mean I might die???!!!  Aren't I immortal??!!  Hey this is the South....it is rude to talk about death...especially mine."  

No, I am not immortal and, yes, this is cancer...not the G-Rated cancer, (the type that exists in polite conversation and in fantasy) but the real stuff that kills, and specifically, is trying to kill me!

Now that I am dealing with that on a daily basis...i.e....hair loss, nausea, bone pain, and yes, chemo, there is another shift I must make.

Mind Shift two (2) I may not die--yet.   As crazy as this may seem, this may be an even harder shift.   I was and still am not resigned to the idea of dying, but now that it seems that my odds are getting better, I catch myself making future plans.   And then I chide myself mentally for doing it, but then I chide myself for chiding myself.   I need a new word.    

It is a strange new dynamic.  I am feeling better overall and perhaps am winning this battle but I have not been given a clean bill yet and so, perhaps, it is too soon to be hopeful.  Can I ever be completely hopeful?  

Which leads me to a decision I have to make.  Do I pause my life until I have a better idea of it being longer?  Or,  do I plow ahead without a thought to expiration dates and diagnosis and such. 

There is a third option that I think I will choose.  I have a keener sense of the reality that I may not live to my full 80 odd years.   But then again I might.   One difference that this makes between me and the average person is that I can give a name to my killer and others cannot.   Cancer may kill me eventually.  But I also might step in front of a car or be struck by lightning.    Just like anyone else.

I think however, since I can name my likely killer then each new day comes with more emphasis of not letting a moment slip by without some significance or purpose being squeezed from it all.  I also am taking more time in my relationships.  If a friend needs to talk, I drop things more easily so that we can talk.  Moments should not be missed, and they might be.  

I guess that is why I hate the meds and the brain fuzz of chemo brain.  I don't want anything dulling my senses while I can enjoy my days.    

My body will continue to change and I may actually beat this thing, but my perspective will never be the same again.  I am hoping I will love deeper, speak softer, forgive quicker, laugh, dance and sing like nobody is watching.