I really want to pay attention to everything that’s going on right now. For example, the cat is snoozing between the pillars above the built-in cabinets, my husband is snoozing in the bedroom, and I’m here at my command post (the southernmost corner of the living room sofa), overhead fans spinning, a pleasant breeze sifting across my face and shoulders.  Got a pile of shirts to iron on the other end of the sofa, which I promised my husband I’d do in exchange for his running the day’s errands for the cat (food and litter), for me (sherbet–I’m roiling in guilt over the pint of  strawberry Haagen-Dasz I killed between last night and this afternoon), and for him (hardware store stuff).

Though I seem to have eliminated my recent viral visitation, I’m still not feeling entirely up to snuff.  And I am forced to confess that getting on the scale again this morning to see that I had dropped another pound scared me more than just a little bit.  I’ve been rather unruffled by this weight loss thing up until the last week or so, when I dropped 4 pounds below the weight I got to 16 years ago, just before I found out I had Hodgkin’s lymphoma.  In fact, the last time I weighed 110, I was probably in junior high.  This coupled with the fact that I began slowly gaining a bit of weight toward the end of my forties and after I turned fifty–which is predictable for a woman who is post-menopausal–and struggled mightily to get rid of it with limited success, leads me to the conclusion that something is definitely amiss with my health these days.  So, yeah, scary.

And although I’m a bit of a hypochondriac (cancer’ll do that to you), it is hard for me to not think about whether I’m going to have to gear myself up again for a major battle.  Against what, I have no idea.  But something.

Still in the grand scheme of things, I’ve always only got just this moment to live, like everyone else.  The only things that really matter are that I remember it, take it all in, every tiny mundane last detail of it, and be vigilant about letting the people I love know that I love them.  And sometimes write about it.

Cheers . . .


About creat1ve11

psychotherapist by trade, writer and artist by temperament, over 50 and not fighting it, love the idea of snorting milk through my nose, but have never actually done it
This entry was posted in aging, blogging, death, existential angst, life, mindfulness, mortality, Reflecting, transitions and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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