2016 was a funeral year. In February, an uncle passed away – prostate cancer. In May, mom passed away – breast cancer. This week, another uncle – gastric cancer.
To me, the most taxing were the months (almost ten) since my mom lost her vision (brain metastasis).
As much as we’d try to cope, to stay cheerful, to do our best, to overdo and back again, there is no word to describe the suffering of a terminal cancer patient. Perhaps this is the reason that makes many of them go in denial. But this doesn’t help. It only delays the reality checks. For some beyond the point where they could make the difference. But this is just wishful thinking – on the part of the carer. Because who can tell what is going on deep inside a soul trapped by rotting flesh?
Contemplating the abyss? Drowning in the mud beneath the waters? Degenerative disease is an institution of agony and torment. Like living in a continual contemplation of death.
Watching my widowed aunties, their sallow looks send the word in silence: the word that there’s no word to describe.
How about watching myself in the mirror? How about writing about my inability to control my emotions? Why am I bursting into tears as I write this?, or as I remember yet another sad sequence of this funeral year?, or just crying for no reason at all?
Grief impacts our bodies when our most beloved suffer and die. Like collateral damage, we can’t escape the tragedies of our families without suffering personal trauma.
Through this funeral year, I’ve beaten my wildest records at losing weight – unintentional. Along with tears, a fair amount of estrogen swept away of my body.
I never stopped posing nude for the camera because I love life even when death creeps around. Perhaps you’ve been noticing the gone pounds that only recently I managed to pile back up with my winter get-fat-fast diet and more supplementing.
I also knew that there’s no painkiller to match a good orgasm. Getting them almost on a daily basis helped me through this ordeal. Over time, as a worn out mother and daughter (is ‘orphaned’ an appropriate term for an adult?), I learned to regard frequent orgasms more like fitness workouts. Because I must admit – and you must agree – that it is not easy to fully detach your mind in the midst of the battlefield.
My explosive clitoral orgasms – the norm – bring a sense of exhaustion along with the resetting reverberations that I crave for. Not a meditative result but rather a muscular reinforcement. Helps the body to some extent, even when the mind finds a hard time to unfocus.
For few weeks during this autumn, before going to bed in the evening, I used a tiny glass piston to pump a tad of estriol into my pussy. Hubby had my agreement to color my morning dreams with his morning wood – because this is when he gets insanely and instinctively hard: no intellectual, artistic, graphic or urban strings attached.
The two-pistons practice (tiny piston in the evening, sizeable piston in the morning) has helped me a great deal. Now I gave up the tiny piston but won’t renounce the morning one!
Is this pure sex or lovemaking? Well, from my perspective it is a succession of raw and gentle vaginal massage. I remain totally passive, almost sleeping on my back, welcoming his penis, enjoying every new inch of penetration and every new centimeter of dilation.
He’s joking about the only time of the day (or night) when his batteries are fully charged. I’m contemplating his momentous energy, avid to absorb it all. To make it mine!
Then, when I feel refilled, I ask him out and we spoon back into sleep, before the clock will ring at six.
After eight, when closing the gate, I wake him up for our classic lovemaking, involving milder penetration and copious sixty-nines. Until my clit cannot stand anymore, as every charged particle of my brain howls away in colorful fireworks.
He still has to finish himself, but I’ll write about this in another blog.
The idea, old and new, is that life is always about fitness and never about funerals. Where death is the absence of life, pain the absence of comfort, sorrow the absence of peace.
Trying to exist and share, you are present, not absent, despite all dilemmas and after all frustrations.