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Lymphoma, Stage Four
Today, I am sitting on the hardwood floor, in our lounge room. My body feels pretty normal. My neck aches a little, my tummy is full of dinner, my mouth tastes nicely, of the drink I just gulped. I am weary from a day of work, and the transition of coming home to my beautiful, energetic, noisy children. Benjamin is cycling home in the darkness. I am always happier when everyone is safely home. My biggest fear is one of my loved ones dying. Oh, and I have lymphoma, stage four. What does this even mean? I'm just me. Mortal, but that is in the one-day-far-away category, isn't it? The doctor, bizarrely, told me there are a lot of little lymphomae, tripping around my lymph system, like jiggling jelly-fish in a warm sea. Some of them have twisted all together, left of my belly-button, and I can feel them. An 8cm x 5cm mobile mass, says the computerised tomography report. I can feel lumps in my neck and groin, and can imagine these funny little lymphomae, dancing around
I AM A US CITIZEN!
A very special element of the proceedings was Gene Tagaban from the First Nations officially welcoming us. Here he is doing a Raven Dance, after telling the story of how Hawk went to fetch the firy spirit for Raven, and carrying it bent her beak, and Raven breathed the spirit into the mountains and the trees and each human being - it was a beautiful story. I was touched deeply by all the expressions of welcome, and especially by dear family and friends being present in the hot sun at my oath ceremony!
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Sam, the trick with Renoir is to never look at reproductions. They're far too common and poorly reproduced and can turn you off him. But the real thing is always incredible.