Countdown to Deportation: It’s All About the Little Things

My day today has been filled with tremors and tears. I talked to an assistant to my head/neck surgeon, told her I needed a letter; when I told her what’s been happening, she absolutely and truly broke down in tears. (This happens a lot with me these days) I apologized, as per normal, and she got hold of my surgeon and faxed the letter. All through the call, my voice was shaking, and for good reason.

I thought I might as well just say it right here. The tumors in my throat are starting to constrict my airway. Therefore I choke at the least impulse, and vomit clear liquid.

Sorry. But it’s true. Sometimes we must say unsayable things.

I’m not joking with you, and this is no ploy. I first realized this in CA, but wasn’t certain. I am now. The timing is completely coincidental, please trust me. Now I can see one of the tumors through my skin.

Sorry.

But true.

Now I’m doing little things. I have a list. It’s very long. Tomorrow will be extremely busy, for sure. Cat food and litter for three cats for a month, money for my cat-sitter for a month (her husband is in dire straits now, and I had no desire whatsoever to add anything to her plate which is obviously already overflowing). Also, a potential move means I move Lisa’s clothing. (Too late, I guess, on that one, because I won’t be able to sort all that out in time). Also, I have to turn in a letter to my rental agency that I’ll be having people I trust access my apartment; by the way, as my closest friends know, I don’t normally “have people over.” That concept is foreign to me. But that’s just how I’ve become, especially these days.

But now everything I know, love, and hold dear is on the line. I want to thank you all for your love, kind wishes, and notes of great strength. No matter what happens, I’m resolved to keep fighting this until, as Starbuck in the rebooted Battlestar Galactica says, I “can’t fight anymore.” That’s as much as I can promise. There has got to be a screenplay in this somewhere, doesn’t there?

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About johnwylam1957

I'm a poet and teacher now living in Toronto, Ontario, Canada.
This entry was posted in Life "After", Notes on Living and Dealing with Illness, On Lisa's Death: Trying to Survive the Unsurvivable. Bookmark the permalink.

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