|
| The Pocock Diaries:
Scripts From An Open Heart . . . Mary Pocock |
|
The Pocock Diaries is a work in progress. Entries will be added each month. Some excerpts of e-mails will also be included. And please feel free to send along your thoughts or feedback to The Pocock Diaries
Click on any image to view it enlarged. | |
* * *
In August 1993, I was diagnosed with two kinds of cancer and given three to five years to live. I am five years passed my perceived shelf life... proving that expiry dates can be pushed a bit.
* * *
| |
 |
How to live with the curve balls life throws you. The fly ball I caught was cancer. First it was the enemy, now it is living in the basement of my psyche and comes up every now and then to raid the fridge.
* * *
Buy my book: Death: Get it right the first time
* * *
Chemo Daycare conjures up all kinds of bizarre images, but this is the name of the area in Princess Margaret Hospital where I go each month to get my three hour drip. Usually, I am alone, but today I was showing my artwork to friends from Texas. My sister Tess arrived - laughing. There I was, reclining on a brown plastic Lazy Boy, with tubes hooking me up to an i.v. pole, my large portfolio supported by the arms of the chair. Two Italian prints left that day for Texas. I wonder what the Pompeii ghosts thought about being sold in a chemo ward. When you have cancer you are constantly improvising.
| |
| |
 |
Time and timeless is actually an oxymoron, not a contradiction.
|
 |
It has been rumored that I am 'dying.' I have been dying for so long now, it has become almost like living. I say almost, because my life has a new quality pervading it. A quality that is ever changing - bittersweet, accepting, joyful, fearful, loving, sad.
I often wonder what it would be like to wake up and not taste impermanence so strongly.
|
|
I lie sprawled on my bed in disheveled sheets, empty pill bottles and half sipped glasses of liquids nearby on a rustic night table, littered with stacks of unread books. My mind is in deep reverie, not from contemplative ability, but rather from the ravages of drugs, intended to 'fight' the cancer spreading through my body.
As I slip into unconsciousness, childhood memories arise. |
* * *
I grew up in a large family; six girls and one boy. My dad used to say my brother was the ham in the sandwich, as he fell in the middle.
When travelling together, my mum used to dress us alike. I heard later we looked like a forest, walking into church in our green coats.
|
* * * |
There she was, staring at the needle in her gloved hand. Lifting my gown, she released the contents, as I felt the warmth of the contents contrast with the sting of the prick. The morphine did not take long, and I was transported from the world of pain to a place with fuzzy edges and joyful thoughts. As it wore off, I followed the nurse around the floor, calling her my angel of the night.
|
Laughter is the big soul opener... When our laugh mouth is open, truth can easily fall in, and out.
* * *
After so many operations
I know my surgeon well. On my third operation, I was lying
on a gurney just short of getting my hair net, when he showed
up. He apologized, but said he did not feel he would be
able to concentrate, as his father just had a heart attack.
I respected him for telling me himself. and left. I had
many people praying for me during this operation; I felt
a bit guilty taking prayers while eating an indian meal
nearby. I decided to direct the prayers to my surgeon's
father. I figure you can pass along prayers like you would
belongings. It makes sense somehow. Ten days later, with
his father on the mend, I had the operation.
I was scared, and hoped that the cancer had not spread too far.
I knew the operating staff this time, and when my surgeon
entered the operating room to perform the mastectomy, I
told him " be gentle, this is my first time." We all cracked
up. Then anesthetic entered me and I was gone .... |
|
Select this link to continue....
|
 |
|
