A stranger’s face

In the mirror

As I try to resurrect something remotely close to the life I had a year ago, before that squamous cancer cell became trapped by the lymph node and began to grow beneath my left jawline, the more I realize that’s the definition of an impossible dream.

Rather than following a natural path into slowly and steadily aging in a predictable way, I’ve been propelled deep into the process in a matter of months.

It’s an effect cancer and other diseases often have on those who must face them in later life, as so many readers can relate.

The combination of radiation and chemotherapy capped by radical surgery, all admirably designed by medicine to extend my life, have left me reassessing what I can realistically expect in the final tier of my golden years.

Believe me, this is not a pity party, valued readers. Please don’t get me wrong. I sadly see so many others in far worse shape than I’m in, including children who’ve hardly had a chance to get started in their lives. My heart goes out to them, every one.

Rather, I’m speaking of how each of us has a road map laid out in our minds that we hope and feel, short of tragedy, will lead us to arrive intact at the end of life.

That usually doesn’t include extended bouts with cancer, which, while we’re aware that possibility exists, doesn’t fit well with our unrealistic expectations.

That describes me a year and 43 pounds ago. I always believed when my time arrived I’d likely be taken suddenly in an accident or perhaps a sudden medical event.

I never visualized where I am today, and in such a relatively short period of seven months.

My family, friends and doctors all encourage me to stay positive, which I make every effort to do. But I also find it impossible to look in the mirror today and see what appears to be a stranger peering back.

Remaining positive is all the more difficult knowing I’ll never enjoy food like I did last May when my salivary glands functioned, or extend my left arm above the shoulder, or express myself in a voice louder than a harsh whisper, or keep my lower lip from drooping, or … oh well, you get the idea.

All those things today are part of who I am and will be until I catch my train out of this world, no matter how much I wish it were otherwise: ’Tis what it is, Mike.

Facing that reality, I occasionally sit on our deck with Benji when afternoons are pleasant and contemplate the philosophical question about who, at essence, we really are. I assume that’s a positive since they say reflection is good for the soul.

Am I my nose or chin, or my leg or head, or am I much more as a person?

René Decartes said, “I think, therefore I am,” and that undeniably sums up each of us, doesn’t it?

Because we can reason and interact with others in this world, we exist regardless of whether we have a nose, arms or legs.

What gives each of us value is what we add to it and how we interact with those who share this strange place. And so I ask myself: What have you done lately to leave this place better than you found it?

Was this experience about enjoying food or other pleasurable experiences, or are those all fleeting, meaningless and forgettable in the end?

And so here I stand unflinching before the mirror, a 76-year-old man searching for any identifiable remnants of who this dreamer was in his vibrancy a half-dozen decades ago. And realizing just how futile and irrelevant any of that is today.

’Tis what it is, Mike.

Zapper cane

Now that our little Benji, the 12-pound taco terrier, thankfully has healed from being badly mauled and almost killed by a neighborhood pit bull mix as he walked beside Jeanetta five months ago, I took to Amazon and placed an age-appropriate order the other day.

So any day now, my new super-duper 1 million volt zapper walking cane ought to arrive on the doorstep.

It should serve to keep Jeanetta— who also was bitten and mauled by the dog that day as she fought on her knees in the street with the vicious animal to save her fur-baby—well-armed for future afternoon jaunts.

It’s become apparent to me that she could use an effective weapon should anything like this occur again. In recent weeks, for the first time in her life she’s expressed a justifiable fear of unrestrained large dogs approaching during their walks.

So this walking weapon ought to provide her and Benji with both distance and security.

If you’ve kept up with increasing numbers of large, unrestrained dogs killing or maiming children, adults and other pets, you might even consider one for yourself.

Now go out into the world and treat everyone you meet exactly like you want them to treat you.