She was 14 years old when she decided she would find love. But time in his age old stinginess did not afford her such happiness until she was 50. It was then she met him. He was quite the charmer: quiet in his knowing understanding, firm in his resolute compassion, and yet helplessly weak under her unraveling brown eyes. They spoke of movies, detailed places previously long forgotten in the recesses of their minds, and fabricated fantasies of all the countries they would need to experience before they passed from this ephemeral dream. He had loved before, and even married. But time had been cruel to him too, and had taken his previous her, early on. Something about too many abnormal cells, he said.
Time didn't think her enough.
She waited half a century to find love, but only half a year to find out she too would have to leave this man behind. They thought they had removed all of the cancer, but nausea and vomiting lead to an MRI ... an MRI lead to a neurosurgeon ... and the neurosurgeon lead to a diagnosis. Metastatic disease he said. They would have to operate. Brain surgery, she thought. She only had months to live, weeks if she didn't have the surgery. But she couldn't tell him. How could she? Be it despair or questions of personal damnation, how could she say he would have to bury her as well?
Love is strong, she thought. Love is kind, she sighed. Love does not despair, she wept.
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
Sometimes you feel like you need this pill (which I think really describes all the symptoms of R2 year). Today was one of those days.
I've been told multiple times throughout my time in neurosurgery that if you haven't seriously thought about quitting, I'm talking about having an alternate career plan lined up paper work in hand, that you're not actually in neurosurgery residency. Well, it's just one of those days...