Deconstructionist Rant

Today's going to be free-form. Will it be a rant? Will it be inspirational? Will it go completely off the rails?

All of those things might come true. If we're lucky. Or, this could just be more navel-gazing from a middle-aged white dude who thinks he's got something to say because he managed to get himself two different forms of cancer.

Why is it always the last thing that feels the most true?

I'm staring into the abyss today. "But, Ben," you respond, "that just sounds like another Wednesday for you." True, true. This particular dark crevasse is the grim prospect of my future employment.

I'm slowing climbing my way out of the pit of despair that was my bone marrow transplant. I've talked a bit about what that process has been like.

Oh, I'm not. I'm not.

Now I'm looking down the barrel of four weeks of daily radiation, as well as a year of maintenance chemo. What are the side effects? Hm. I wonder. Oh, right. Fatigue, fatigue and more fatigue.

Dammit.

How the hell am I supposed to climb out of the pit when I keep getting knocked back down? I'm also pretty sure the walls are greased with the slimy fat of rendered despondency.

I'm going back to teach next week. I don't know if I'm prepared for it. Part of that is just physical. Teaching takes a lot out of me. It also gives me back quite a bit, so it usually comes out close to even.

The other part is returning to a place where I don't feel welcome. Not getting a final interview for the position I applied for felt like a bit of a referendum on me as a teacher, or even me as a person. Like a vote of no-confidence. It's hard to walk willingly back into that environment.

I say that, and I mean it. I also read it and think, "Wow. There's a lot to unpack there."

It's true. There is.

There are so many possible reasons for the decision that was made. Why, when I don't know what they were, do I immediately assume the worst? Why is that the first place I travel in my admittedly rocky emotional landscape?

Why am I still talking about it?

I've mentioned before how much I love teaching. It's true. And for whatever reason, I keep getting knocked back in that area. No matter which university I'm teaching at, it feels like there's an invisible wall that goes up the moment I reach for something permanent. I spend a lot of time adjusting as an instructor, evaluating what's working and what's not. I pay close attention to my student evaluations, especially the ones that aren't positive. Some of my most important successes as a teacher have come from that process. And yet... here I am.

Fear of the future is definitely a big part of this whole thing, I'll admit. Not knowing where I'll be a year from now is a little freaky. But it's no different than any other time in my life. I've NEVER known where I was going to be in a year, even when I thought I did. I certainly didn't think this was where I'd end up, if you'd asked me a year ago what would be happening in my life.

A year.

That's how long I've been fighting this whole battle. I found out at the end of last March. It's now March once more, and I'm finally starting to see the possible end to this thing.

A year.

That's a blink, really. A blip.

A year. No more than that.

But that bump in the road has had a profound impact on my life. I don't see things the same way I did a year ago. Things are both more precious to me and more fragile. I see the breakability of things, and it's terrifying and gorgeous, all at once. My relationships mean more to me. That doesn't automatically make me better at keeping them, but it does help me to give more value to them, to feel how frangible our ties really are.

It also makes me tired, because life refuses to give me a break. Just this month, both of our cars have gone into the shop for major repairs. Our daughter is struggling at school, Aimee's shoulder seems to be falling out of its socket, and our lives seem to be a revolving door of unrelenting near-disasters.

Shouldn't getting cancer give you a pass? It feels like it should. But it really doesn't.

I'll tell you what it has given me. A handicapped placard that I feel guilty about using. A broken back. A loss of what remaining hair I had. Feet that are either numb or stabbing me with electric shocks. A constant ringing in my ears. An aversion to simple carbs that I'm afraid will never go away (and yes, I get that this might be a blessing in disguise, but HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO EAT MY FEELINGS IF I CAN'T EAT CARBS, Y'ALL?)

With gusto.

Sigh.

All of the above is true. It is. But it's not the whole picture. It's like I'm only deconstructing the bad I've experienced. Sometimes it's all that I can manage to see.

I've taken my rantings and picked them apart and found them to be fundamentally empty. A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

But in the brief moments I can step back, I see other things. Achingly beautiful landscapes that I had completely missed before due to their familiarity. A cuddle in the warmth of our bed with the woman I love. A lick on the face (NOT THE MOUTH) from my puppy. A fist bump from my youngest child, accompanied by an involuntary grin.

These things are precious. At least as valuable to me as the congregate of my despair and heartache. More so.

What does it mean that my deconstructionist rant ends on a positive note?

Something more to unpack in a different moment.

Man, I have a lot of baggage.
--------------------------

Up soon... a reminiscence of desserts past.