Why a blog about death and decay? Isn’t that a little morbid in this culture of bread and circuses?
Morbid isn’t really my thing. If you know me, you know that I am in love with life. Having walked through the valley of shadows many times, I treasure life, revel in it, do all I can to protect and nurture it. I believe that life and love ultimately triumph over death. But “ultimate” is not here yet, and that is why I write about death and decay.
I am an American. America is shiny. America is NEW, IMPROVED, IT WON’T LAST LONG AT THIS PRICE! We live in the land of lights and bright colors and so many choices—creating the illusion that we have more control over our lives than we really do. We grow up thinking that we can dance around death, and it won’t get us.
Not so—just read the papers. While we anesthetize our hearts with a blanket of stuff, and blind our eyes with glitter, a whole aching world is going on around us, screaming just beyond the iPod earbuds.
Death and decay have touched my life. It may have touched yours as well. I write from experience because I know there is hope. Love and life really do win, in the end.
Where Does Your Meat Come From?
For many years we raised sheep. In the spring the newborn lambs quickly outgrew the gangly stage and bounced around in the sunshine looking like cute little stuffed animals from the toy store. We didn’t give them names, because I knew they were not going to live past the fall. The purpose of their lives was providing meat for the table.
Raising the lambs year after year also raised issues to consider. When you go to the market and buy meat in neat packages, you don’t think about what you are doing. That sirloin was once part of a living, breathing, individual animal. An animal that was born, that had a personality, that interacted with its fellow creatures. Now that animal is dead—killed in the prime of its life so humans could eat its flesh.
I was bringing these lambs into the world, feeding them every day, petting them, laughing at their antics, knowing that soon I was going to lift them onto a truck and take them to the butcher. They would have short happy lives and a quick death, but something about that still bothered me. Maybe I am still an American city girl at heart--a farmer, a person raised in a rural economy, or someone in a developing country would have no qualms about raising animals for meat.
I am a carnivore—most humans are, when given the opportunity. Some people choose to be vegetarians because they do not wish to live at the expense of another animal’s life. Some choose a vegetarian diet because of their religious beliefs. But for most of us, meat is an important part of our diet. So an animal has to die.
What do you do with that? If you buy meat at the market, you are promoting an industry that treats animals in a strictly economic way. The feelings of the animals are the last consideration, and their lives are so horrific that death is a mercy. And I do buy meat at the market. I do participate in this corporate cruelty to animals.
For a few years, my way of handling this sad dilemma was to raise lambs and give them the best possible life I could, as far as it was under my control. No stress, no fear, all the food and water they needed, kind words, clean bedding, plenty of fresh air outside. The lambs nursed from their mothers until the day they died, and never had to go through the stress of forced weaning. The male lambs were left intact, so never felt the pain of castration. The weak link in my plan was the trip to the butcher and whatever stress they went through there before the blood was drained from their throats. That still bothers me. I regret that I didn’t have the stomach, the know-how, or the right tools to butcher them myself, so their last memory on earth would be tucking into a bucket of grain.
I don’t raise animals for meat anymore. And to this day, none of my four kids will eat lamb.
Raising the lambs year after year also raised issues to consider. When you go to the market and buy meat in neat packages, you don’t think about what you are doing. That sirloin was once part of a living, breathing, individual animal. An animal that was born, that had a personality, that interacted with its fellow creatures. Now that animal is dead—killed in the prime of its life so humans could eat its flesh.
I was bringing these lambs into the world, feeding them every day, petting them, laughing at their antics, knowing that soon I was going to lift them onto a truck and take them to the butcher. They would have short happy lives and a quick death, but something about that still bothered me. Maybe I am still an American city girl at heart--a farmer, a person raised in a rural economy, or someone in a developing country would have no qualms about raising animals for meat.
I am a carnivore—most humans are, when given the opportunity. Some people choose to be vegetarians because they do not wish to live at the expense of another animal’s life. Some choose a vegetarian diet because of their religious beliefs. But for most of us, meat is an important part of our diet. So an animal has to die.
What do you do with that? If you buy meat at the market, you are promoting an industry that treats animals in a strictly economic way. The feelings of the animals are the last consideration, and their lives are so horrific that death is a mercy. And I do buy meat at the market. I do participate in this corporate cruelty to animals.
For a few years, my way of handling this sad dilemma was to raise lambs and give them the best possible life I could, as far as it was under my control. No stress, no fear, all the food and water they needed, kind words, clean bedding, plenty of fresh air outside. The lambs nursed from their mothers until the day they died, and never had to go through the stress of forced weaning. The male lambs were left intact, so never felt the pain of castration. The weak link in my plan was the trip to the butcher and whatever stress they went through there before the blood was drained from their throats. That still bothers me. I regret that I didn’t have the stomach, the know-how, or the right tools to butcher them myself, so their last memory on earth would be tucking into a bucket of grain.
I don’t raise animals for meat anymore. And to this day, none of my four kids will eat lamb.
Delete
I have the email addresses of dead people. For some reason, I’m reluctant to delete them. They were not really friends, in the classic sense, but they were people in my life and now they are gone. So why is it so hard to check the “delete” box and get them out of my email address list?
The Mail-daemon (a whole ‘nother subject) will only send me a terse notice that a message was undeliverable, so I never send them anything. If I did, where would it go? Do email messages fly off into the infinite reaches of space? Do any of them actually make it to Heaven?
“Delete” is an ugly word when you apply it to a human life. Even if that life is no longer here. “Delete” has implications that can never apply to the life of a human being. Every life makes an impact somewhere. No life can be deleted, as if it never existed.
Maybe I cannot delete them because these people left their footprints in my life. Maybe it is because the act is so harsh, and makes their deaths so final. Maybe it is because I have a difficult time throwing things away if I think I may need them again someday…
The Mail-daemon (a whole ‘nother subject) will only send me a terse notice that a message was undeliverable, so I never send them anything. If I did, where would it go? Do email messages fly off into the infinite reaches of space? Do any of them actually make it to Heaven?
“Delete” is an ugly word when you apply it to a human life. Even if that life is no longer here. “Delete” has implications that can never apply to the life of a human being. Every life makes an impact somewhere. No life can be deleted, as if it never existed.
Maybe I cannot delete them because these people left their footprints in my life. Maybe it is because the act is so harsh, and makes their deaths so final. Maybe it is because I have a difficult time throwing things away if I think I may need them again someday…
All Hallows Eve
All Hallows Eve,
and a lean wind sweeps
the last withered leaves
from the street,
leaves them heaped by weathered walls--
against this gray stone wall.
There is no treat,
only trick of light
and cold gray stone
and I am alone
when the Lost Ones come,
tiny wisps in the night
singing their songs of joy.
I never heard them laugh
or cry--
never said goodbye,
only gripped the empty place
that cradled them,
screaming “Why?”,
and kept on walking,
kept on,
one foot,
then the next,
till the years were spent
and I found this place
among the stones,
crumbling withered leaves in my hand.
All Hallows Eve
and the cringing light
of the dying year
shudders in a chilling wind
and every trace of green and fire
is swallowed up in murky doubt
when I sit alone
among these stones
and the Lost Ones come,
tiny wisps in the night,
singing their songs of joy.
I wrote this poem for my babies who died before they were born. Most of them died in the fall...a sad season.
and a lean wind sweeps
the last withered leaves
from the street,
leaves them heaped by weathered walls--
against this gray stone wall.
There is no treat,
only trick of light
and cold gray stone
and I am alone
when the Lost Ones come,
tiny wisps in the night
singing their songs of joy.
I never heard them laugh
or cry--
never said goodbye,
only gripped the empty place
that cradled them,
screaming “Why?”,
and kept on walking,
kept on,
one foot,
then the next,
till the years were spent
and I found this place
among the stones,
crumbling withered leaves in my hand.
All Hallows Eve
and the cringing light
of the dying year
shudders in a chilling wind
and every trace of green and fire
is swallowed up in murky doubt
when I sit alone
among these stones
and the Lost Ones come,
tiny wisps in the night,
singing their songs of joy.
I wrote this poem for my babies who died before they were born. Most of them died in the fall...a sad season.
Cell Rebellion
Boobs. Tits. Jugs. The twins. The girls. Whatever you call them, breasts are breasts. Symbols of the feminine gender, they nourish infants and attract guys. Poets write about them; artists paint them. Women are supposed to have two of them. Sometimes it doesn’t end up that way.
I have one and a half. I was “lucky” and didn’t need a mastectomy when the little cluster of calcifications that “nine times out of ten is nothing” turned out to be cancer. Never well endowed, in my case a lumpectomy took out a lot of real estate.
After ten years, the half-boob still hurts; a constant reminder that life is short and days are too precious to waste. The doctor told me the pain is from the radiation, and should go away eventually. Ten years is a long eventually. Ten years is also a gift—many women don’t get ten years after surgery for breast cancer.
With a diagnosis of cancer, there comes a flood of questions. The most perplexing circle like vultures around the word “why?” Why does a woman who eats broccoli, takes vitamins, nurses her babies, and has no family history of breast cancer get breast cancer? Was it the abortion I had at nineteen? Was it the time I used heavy-duty paint stripper on the kitchen windows? Was it the stress of years living in a difficult marriage? Who knows?
What is it that triggers a cell to take on a demented life of its own? Matt Ridley, in Genome has a good description of the cascade of events within a cell that impel it to rebellion. Such a tiny thing, a cell, a net of chromosomes, a scrap of a spiral of DNA—you could die from that one tiny thing.
Cancer is strange. You go along with your life, feeling fine, and all the time there is this tiny thing growing inside you that carries your death. And you have no clue. I was too busy with children and life to take time out for a mammogram. When I finally made an appointment for the big squeeze, the last thing I expected was a call from the doctor suggesting a biopsy was in order. And what the heck did a biopsy involve, anyway?
It turns out there are two kinds of biopsies. One consists of lying on your stomach on a table with your breast hanging out through a hole so the doctor can stick a needle into it, remove some of the suspicious tissue, and send it off to the lab for the inquisition. So I got all ready, up to the point of assuming the position, only to be told that I didn’t have the required minimum size for the procedure. (Insult to injury!)
No, I had to have the other kind. The kind where they put you to sleep and take out a chunk, which seems a little odd to me because my total boobal endowment was just a chunk to begin with. When I heard the word “biopsy,” I always assumed it was just a little smidgeon of tissue that gets removed—not so. But the doctor was reassuring, thought for sure it wasn’t cancer, said he’d call me when the results were in.
So a week later the phone rings. It’s the doctor. I have three different kinds of cancer going on in my breast. I have a 30% chance of getting it in the other one. Oh crap.
I didn’t fall apart. Didn’t cry. Just went through the grim setting of one foot in front of the next and then doing it again, and again, step by step. The surgeon. The oncologist. The second opinion at Mass General. The CAT scan. The bone scan. The science fiction horror of sterile walls and fluorescent lights and plastic and steel, the giant machines in this factory of life and death where there is no living thing to be seen, and the dead are hidden away.
I had a lumpectomy (there’s a word for you) and weeks of radiation. Were all the errant cells destroyed? How does one know for sure? A cell is so small—what if one got away, slipped into a capillary and headed on down the river to God knows where, to pick up where it left off? That is the sword of Damocles that hangs over the head of every survivor of cancer treatment: what if one got away? You wouldn’t know. You wouldn’t know until the symptoms started to take over, and from what I understand, once that happens your chances go way down...
I have one and a half. I was “lucky” and didn’t need a mastectomy when the little cluster of calcifications that “nine times out of ten is nothing” turned out to be cancer. Never well endowed, in my case a lumpectomy took out a lot of real estate.
After ten years, the half-boob still hurts; a constant reminder that life is short and days are too precious to waste. The doctor told me the pain is from the radiation, and should go away eventually. Ten years is a long eventually. Ten years is also a gift—many women don’t get ten years after surgery for breast cancer.
With a diagnosis of cancer, there comes a flood of questions. The most perplexing circle like vultures around the word “why?” Why does a woman who eats broccoli, takes vitamins, nurses her babies, and has no family history of breast cancer get breast cancer? Was it the abortion I had at nineteen? Was it the time I used heavy-duty paint stripper on the kitchen windows? Was it the stress of years living in a difficult marriage? Who knows?
What is it that triggers a cell to take on a demented life of its own? Matt Ridley, in Genome has a good description of the cascade of events within a cell that impel it to rebellion. Such a tiny thing, a cell, a net of chromosomes, a scrap of a spiral of DNA—you could die from that one tiny thing.
Cancer is strange. You go along with your life, feeling fine, and all the time there is this tiny thing growing inside you that carries your death. And you have no clue. I was too busy with children and life to take time out for a mammogram. When I finally made an appointment for the big squeeze, the last thing I expected was a call from the doctor suggesting a biopsy was in order. And what the heck did a biopsy involve, anyway?
It turns out there are two kinds of biopsies. One consists of lying on your stomach on a table with your breast hanging out through a hole so the doctor can stick a needle into it, remove some of the suspicious tissue, and send it off to the lab for the inquisition. So I got all ready, up to the point of assuming the position, only to be told that I didn’t have the required minimum size for the procedure. (Insult to injury!)
No, I had to have the other kind. The kind where they put you to sleep and take out a chunk, which seems a little odd to me because my total boobal endowment was just a chunk to begin with. When I heard the word “biopsy,” I always assumed it was just a little smidgeon of tissue that gets removed—not so. But the doctor was reassuring, thought for sure it wasn’t cancer, said he’d call me when the results were in.
So a week later the phone rings. It’s the doctor. I have three different kinds of cancer going on in my breast. I have a 30% chance of getting it in the other one. Oh crap.
I didn’t fall apart. Didn’t cry. Just went through the grim setting of one foot in front of the next and then doing it again, and again, step by step. The surgeon. The oncologist. The second opinion at Mass General. The CAT scan. The bone scan. The science fiction horror of sterile walls and fluorescent lights and plastic and steel, the giant machines in this factory of life and death where there is no living thing to be seen, and the dead are hidden away.
I had a lumpectomy (there’s a word for you) and weeks of radiation. Were all the errant cells destroyed? How does one know for sure? A cell is so small—what if one got away, slipped into a capillary and headed on down the river to God knows where, to pick up where it left off? That is the sword of Damocles that hangs over the head of every survivor of cancer treatment: what if one got away? You wouldn’t know. You wouldn’t know until the symptoms started to take over, and from what I understand, once that happens your chances go way down...
An Unwilling Cancer Student
After my surgery, I read everything I could find about breast cancer. So many books, so many articles, so many studies, trying to find out what happened and what I could do to keep it from happening again. There is so much conflicting advice in this age of information.
I Google the survival statistics, even knowing that for one individual, percentages don’t matter. You either get it again, or you don’t. All or nothing. One hundred percent or zero. And ultimately, does it matter? We are all guaranteed one visit from the Grim Reaper regardless of what we do.
What about mammograms? Do they cause cancer themselves? Some suggest so. Others swear that early detection far outweighs any risk.
Does diet make a difference? Some studies suggest so, while others seem to indicate not. Vitamins? Herbs? Green tea? Antioxidants? I use them all; take the shotgun approach.
Is cancer a failure of the immune system? Some say yes; others say no. Eat meat—don’t eat meat. Eat soy—don’t eat soy.
The geographical distribution of breast cancer is telling. Low in Africa and Asia; high in the US, Canada, Europe and Australia. Something about modern, high-tech countries is correlated with breast cancer—what is it?
Is it even possible to cut off a cancer recurrence before it starts? Some consistent factors seem to run through all the varying opinions. A diet high in raw, fresh fruits and vegetables apparently gives some protection—some of the sources I found suggested that the intact enzymes in raw foods are beneficial to the body. Eating raw fruits and vegetables is easy enough to do, and can’t hurt you even if it doesn’t work—which you wouldn’t know until the cancer grew big enough to take you down.
Vitamin D, melatonin, and selenium are associated with a lower incidence of cancer. The latest studies imply that vitamin E supplements are ineffective in preventing cancer.
I am groping in the dark, trying to find answers to something that, in the end, may have no answers. The pieces of the puzzle don’t fit together. And what good is it to have a few pieces, if you can’t see the whole thing?
Here is a list of my favorite websites for breast cancer information:
The Center for Disease Control. Has a lot of interesting statistics and general information.
The National Cancer Institute. Many articles, statistics, etc.
The Dr. Susan Love Research Foundation. Author of The Breast Book and medical authority on breast cancer. Much information about breast cancer, recurrence, survivor stories.
Susan G. Komen Organization. Covers every aspect of breast cancer.
Breast Cancer.Org. A wealth of information, open to alternative treatments as well.
Dr. Lorraine Day’s Official Website. Dr. Day overcame her own breast cancer using natural therapies.
Alternative Cancer Treatments Comparison and Testing. The best website I have found if you are looking into alternatives to conventional medical treatments.
PawPawResearch. Interesting information about the inhibiting effects of pawpaw on cancer cells.
I Google the survival statistics, even knowing that for one individual, percentages don’t matter. You either get it again, or you don’t. All or nothing. One hundred percent or zero. And ultimately, does it matter? We are all guaranteed one visit from the Grim Reaper regardless of what we do.
What about mammograms? Do they cause cancer themselves? Some suggest so. Others swear that early detection far outweighs any risk.
Does diet make a difference? Some studies suggest so, while others seem to indicate not. Vitamins? Herbs? Green tea? Antioxidants? I use them all; take the shotgun approach.
Is cancer a failure of the immune system? Some say yes; others say no. Eat meat—don’t eat meat. Eat soy—don’t eat soy.
The geographical distribution of breast cancer is telling. Low in Africa and Asia; high in the US, Canada, Europe and Australia. Something about modern, high-tech countries is correlated with breast cancer—what is it?
Is it even possible to cut off a cancer recurrence before it starts? Some consistent factors seem to run through all the varying opinions. A diet high in raw, fresh fruits and vegetables apparently gives some protection—some of the sources I found suggested that the intact enzymes in raw foods are beneficial to the body. Eating raw fruits and vegetables is easy enough to do, and can’t hurt you even if it doesn’t work—which you wouldn’t know until the cancer grew big enough to take you down.
Vitamin D, melatonin, and selenium are associated with a lower incidence of cancer. The latest studies imply that vitamin E supplements are ineffective in preventing cancer.
I am groping in the dark, trying to find answers to something that, in the end, may have no answers. The pieces of the puzzle don’t fit together. And what good is it to have a few pieces, if you can’t see the whole thing?
Here is a list of my favorite websites for breast cancer information:
The Center for Disease Control. Has a lot of interesting statistics and general information.
The National Cancer Institute. Many articles, statistics, etc.
The Dr. Susan Love Research Foundation. Author of The Breast Book and medical authority on breast cancer. Much information about breast cancer, recurrence, survivor stories.
Susan G. Komen Organization. Covers every aspect of breast cancer.
Breast Cancer.Org. A wealth of information, open to alternative treatments as well.
Dr. Lorraine Day’s Official Website. Dr. Day overcame her own breast cancer using natural therapies.
Alternative Cancer Treatments Comparison and Testing. The best website I have found if you are looking into alternatives to conventional medical treatments.
PawPawResearch. Interesting information about the inhibiting effects of pawpaw on cancer cells.
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