Gus may be helping me cheat death.
One year ago, I finished a long course of treatment for a very bad and scary kind of cancer. A cancer with a truly crappy rate of five-year survival. Ovarian cancer. When it was finally correctly diagnosed, in January of 2018, it was far advanced, as is typical with ovarian. But since I was otherwise very healthy and just 60 years old, I agreed to aggressive treatment recommended by Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in New York City. Through a Sloan-collaborating specialist in Albany, I underwent once-a-week chemotherapy in January, February, and March; then I had major abdominal surgery at Sloan-Kettering’s hospital in April; and I followed up with more chemo, ending in July.
The only animal in my life during this time was Reggie, my big, sweet browndog. As for humans, I had barely shared my diagnosis with a couple of friends, and instantly several more jumped up, teamed up, and wrapped me up in a support network whose proportions and generosity blew my mind. They eagerly brought meals, chipped in to hire a dog-walker, drove me near and far, took notes during doctor visits, fetched groceries, vacuumed my house, and much more. One of them was Barbara the horse owner. I only rarely visited the barn back then, but she regularly regaled me with horse and donkey news. And somehow she and I conceived a plan to create a fertility goddess to infuse my house with animal energy and healing vibes.
(I'm an exclusively left-brained realist [dust and tumbleweeds fill the right half of my skull], so I believe in the supernatural and spiritual not one whit. Nevertheless, it’s a gas to play along with Earth Goddess mythology [the only reasonable religion], if merely as a form of art therapy [which I also find bogus] or of just plain positive thinking.)
One year ago, I finished a long course of treatment for a very bad and scary kind of cancer. A cancer with a truly crappy rate of five-year survival. Ovarian cancer. When it was finally correctly diagnosed, in January of 2018, it was far advanced, as is typical with ovarian. But since I was otherwise very healthy and just 60 years old, I agreed to aggressive treatment recommended by Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in New York City. Through a Sloan-collaborating specialist in Albany, I underwent once-a-week chemotherapy in January, February, and March; then I had major abdominal surgery at Sloan-Kettering’s hospital in April; and I followed up with more chemo, ending in July.
The only animal in my life during this time was Reggie, my big, sweet browndog. As for humans, I had barely shared my diagnosis with a couple of friends, and instantly several more jumped up, teamed up, and wrapped me up in a support network whose proportions and generosity blew my mind. They eagerly brought meals, chipped in to hire a dog-walker, drove me near and far, took notes during doctor visits, fetched groceries, vacuumed my house, and much more. One of them was Barbara the horse owner. I only rarely visited the barn back then, but she regularly regaled me with horse and donkey news. And somehow she and I conceived a plan to create a fertility goddess to infuse my house with animal energy and healing vibes.
(I'm an exclusively left-brained realist [dust and tumbleweeds fill the right half of my skull], so I believe in the supernatural and spiritual not one whit. Nevertheless, it’s a gas to play along with Earth Goddess mythology [the only reasonable religion], if merely as a form of art therapy [which I also find bogus] or of just plain positive thinking.)
Using chicken wire and papier-mache, we gradually built the goddess. I devoted my kitchen table to her, and I worked on her a lot during my few good days between chemo infusions, and while I was convalescing from surgery. Barbara guided and fashioned several of the goddess’s key features, such as brow ridge, boobs, and gesturing arms. She provided yards of lovely tea-dyed muslin and helped apply the final muslin-mache outer surface. And she helped me shop for ridiculous amounts of ridiculous toy flora and fauna to bedeck and festoon the finished goddess.
The construction progress
seemed to mirror my medical progress. I responded remarkably well to
the first round of chemo, and our chicken wire was shaping up
delightfully well. I only needed about a quarter as much surgery as
expected, while two layers of papier-mache was refining her generative voluptuosity. After followup chemo, my originally sky-high
cancer-antigen markers sank far below the normal, no-cancer threshold, just as the
goddess was sprouting flora and fauna galore, from silk roses and grape vines to toy birds and fish and mammals. Clearly, I couldn’t help but get healthy in her presence.
I was doing so well that I probably didn’t need to add Gus to my animal-energy familiars. Still, I’m delighted that I did. Statistically, ovarian cancer insists on recurring, but if anything can keep mine at bay, it’ll be Gus and the goddess. That double-G cocktail has worked throughout this first year. In the fall, I decorated the goddess with red and yellow leaves and acorns and gourds while Gus and I came to know and like each other; in winter, Herself sported a Christmas-lighted fake-ivy headdress and fragrant pine boughs while Gus and I played goofy games to stay warm; and now She's hosting real and artificial flowers and ferns as Gus and I relish the green, grassy outdoors together.
Double-G!!
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