"One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain." ~ Bob MarleyPain entered my life back in March when I heard my doctor, a man I generally have mad respect for, nonchalantly speculate during a routine wellness exam that I might have throat cancer before handing my chart off to a fidgety nurse and exiting the clinic room.
The only music I chose to hear from that scene forward was a syrupy mixology of light forest rain, bamboo chimes, and rock n' roll that played itself out quite beautifully through August in three major acts: getting married, buying a home, and relishing summer. Fall's lone task was to pepper in rustling leaves, hand turkeys and spices around these delightful developments—not concurrence from my dentist during September's teeth cleaning that, "Yes...yes, in fact, *that* looks like cancer. Has your doctor mentioned this to you before?"
The music I needed to face then became:
my husband...who encouraged me to stop being selfless and start getting [a bit] selfish. Talk about Real World advice. (And an writer who needs to update his cultural references.)
my doctor's ear/nose/throat specialist referral...who declared last Friday (and in the first five minutes of scoping my yap) that my uvula would have to go.
and my writing...which is more or less another type of "music" I keep in the Weatherly pain distraction kit. (Honorable mentions include walking my dog, laptop pizza boxes, staring at trees, and talking animal movies. *Love you, Babe.)
Even with the statistical odds of not being diagnosed with throat cancer at 35 in my favor, let alone beating it if I DID have it, the pain of predicting what's ahead is still daunting—especially the idea of saying "Ahhh!" after next Thursday and not spying Mr. Dangly in the back of my throat. Trust me when I say I YouTubed and Googled enough surgical images last weekend to realize I will forever look cartoonish "back there." Still, if that's the price to pay for hearing my biopsied throat carnage is cancer free, then so be it. I can deal. Other potential side effects include permanent change of voice (already having nightmares that I wake up squawking like Daffy Duck); nasal regurgitation ("Mmm!"), and—my personal favorite—the inability to ever again correctly speak French (because mine was so magnifique with uvula seeing how I failed this subject twice in college) or any other language that has a uvular 'r' phoneme.
Still, I choose to remain optimistic and enjoy what's in front of me now: life! Tonight's Nash's barn dance will be an evening of bonfires and banjos with besties. Total #hippyjack (that one's for you, Yosai) festivities..which is actually what my/self doctor both prescribes AND subscribes to daily. Tomorrow morning I leave for a coastal grant writing conference at Ocean Shores which should also be wonderful this week. Salty air, networking, and new ideas. These are a few of my favorite things. The drive will also do me good. Open roads and music...pleasure before pain...living life instead of fearing death.
|"That's all folks." Literally.|