Tag: Dylan Thomas

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Leaving, by Will Stanton / A Memorial

[This is the last posting submitted by Will Stanton.  He passed into history and memories on 1 January 2017.  He is missed. — Editor] 

Leaving

He was diagnosed with
lung cancer in 1991.  We knew the
inevitable end; we just did not know when. 
Each passing day, each passing year, was, in its own way, leaving.  We both understood that.  Some acquaintances told me, “Why don’t you
leave him?”  I would not, not that
way.  I stayed.
I did not cry as a
child.  My mother told me that, and we
both pondered my difference from other children.  Of course, I felt emotion, but nothing seemed
to drive me to tears.  That changed later.  A special someone came into my life who truly
mattered – – – and then left.  It was the
leaving that changed me.  As the famous
19th-century, authoress George Eliot stated,  “Only in the agony of parting do we look into
the depths of love.”
I always have been
sensitive to others, perhaps unusually empathetic and caring.  That increased significantly after his
leaving, both with people whom I knew, and also even fictional characters in
movies.  If, in viewing well presented
stories,  I become particularly attached
to characters who have deep bonds with each other, I apparently identify with
them, at least subconsciously; for, if they part from each other, either in
having to leave or, perhaps, in dying, emotion wells up within me.  Such deep emotion comes suddenly and
unbidden.  When a good person dies,
leaving the loved-ones behind, the emotion catches within my gut.  When loving, deeply bonded people part ways,
never to see each other again, that, too, deeply moves me.  Again, quoting George Eliot: “In every
parting, there is an image of death.”
I admit it: I never have
come fully to terms with reality, with mortality.  And, I’m not like so many who choose to hold
deep-seated beliefs that this world is merely a stepping-stone to a so-called
“better world,” beliefs based upon common indoctrination and, perhaps, upon
fear and hope,  Oh, I don’t mind so much
the afflictions and death of inhuman humans, those whose cruelty and dire deeds
harm others.  But, it is the good people,
the loving people, people who have contributed so much to the betterment of
humankind, whose leaving distresses me. 
I would be so much more content if they (dare I say, “we”?) did not have
to leave.
I understand and feel the
passionate, poetic lines of Dylan Thomas:
“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

So, with these thoughts
of mine being presented close to All Souls Day (or in German, “Allerseelen”),
with the cold days of December soon upon us, I prefer my thoughts to dwell,
instead, upon our happier memories of May, our younger days, as expressed in
the final lines of Hermann von Gilm poem, “Allerseelen”, “— Spend on my heart again those lovely
hours, like once in May.”
© 23 July 2016 
About the Author 
I
have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories.  I also realize that, although my own life has
not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy
experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have
derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
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Leaving / Rejoice, by Will Stanton


[This is the last posting submitted by Will Stanton. — Editor] 

Leaving
He
was diagnosed with lung cancer in 1991. 
We knew the inevitable end; we just did not know when.  Each passing day, each passing year, was, in
its own way, leaving.  We both understood
that.  Some acquaintances told me, “Why don’t
you leave him?”  I would not, not that
way.  I stayed.
I
did not cry as a child.  My mother told
me that, and we both pondered my difference from other children.  Of course, I felt emotion, but nothing seemed
to drive me to tears.  That changed later.  A special someone came into my life who truly
mattered – – – and then left.  It was the
leaving that changed me.  As the famous
19th-century, authoress George Eliot stated,  “Only in the agony of parting do we look into
the depths of love.”
I
always have been sensitive to others, perhaps unusually empathetic and
caring.  That increased significantly
after his leaving, both with people whom I knew, and also even fictional
characters in movies.  If, in viewing
well presented stories,  I become
particularly attached to characters who have deep bonds with each other, I
apparently identify with them, at least subconsciously; for, if they part from
each other, either in having to leave or, perhaps, in dying, emotion wells up
within me.  Such deep emotion comes
suddenly and unbidden.  When a good
person dies, leaving the loved-ones behind, the emotion catches within my
gut.  When loving, deeply bonded people
part ways, never to see each other again, that, too, deeply moves me.  Again, quoting George Eliot: “In every
parting, there is an image of death.”
I
admit it: I never have come fully to terms with reality, with mortality.  And, I’m not like so many who choose to hold
deep-seated beliefs that this world is merely a stepping-stone to a so-called
“better world,” beliefs based upon common indoctrination and, perhaps, upon
fear and hope,  Oh, I don’t mind so much
the afflictions and death of inhuman humans, those whose cruelty and dire deeds
harm others.  But, it is the good people,
the loving people, people who have contributed so much to the betterment of
humankind, whose leaving distresses me. 
I would be so much more content if they (dare I say, “we”?) did not have
to leave.
I
understand and feel the passionate, poetic lines of Dylan Thomas:
“Do not go gentle into that good
night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

So,
with these thoughts of mine being presented close to All Souls Day (or in
German, “Allerseelen”), with the cold days of December soon upon us, I prefer
my thoughts to dwell, instead, upon our happier memories of May, our younger
days, as expressed in the final lines of Hermann von Gilm poem, “Allerseelen”, “— Spend on my
heart again those lovely hours, like once in May.”
© 23 July 2016  
Rejoice
This presentation of mine
today is very personal, and the first important comments are very blunt.  So, hang on, I appreciate your patience in my
telling.  It deals with my medical
condition over the last several years and my current frame of mind, which has
developed, and perhaps even improved over time.
Among other conditions, my
three major problems — mega-killer immune system killing off all my clotting
blood platelets down to zero, large granular-T-cell leukemia, and the great
possibility of developing blood-clots in any organ, brain, or in the
circulatory system, — could kill me at any moment.  So little is understood about these
conditions, and especially in my extreme case, that the medical staff are
writing papers about me.  I consider that
a dubious honor.
Yet, here is where I
rejoice.  My attitude to all of this has
changed markedly over the last few years. 
When I first was diagnosed with these major problems, I was, of course,
surprised, shocked, and dismayed.  Yet, a
whole team of oncology doctors and nurses went to great, extended effort to
treat me.  For a short time, it seemed to
work.
Then a couple of years ago,
I suffered a truly major event when it seemed that no treatment would ever
help.  With each episode, the efficacy seems
to diminish.  Many people might totally
despair and wish to suffer no more.  I
did not quite despair, but I was profoundly disappointed and felt resigned to
my fate.  So yes, I did think about
simply driving up to the mountains some cold night, park on some high point,
and gaze at the mountain scenery until I fell asleep.  Of course, I never did.  I still have some pleasures and satisfactions
in my life.
Well here again is where I
rejoice.  Despite my circumstances, my
whole mind-set has changed and improved. 
I do what I need to do with St. Joseph’s Hospital the various Kaiser
clinics, and all the doctors and nurses. 
But, it is what I do and think and feel outside of all of that which is
actually making me happy.
For one, just in a week of
being out of the hospital and being able to go home on October 28th
(mind you, with some misgivings of the medical staff), I accumulated as much as
fifty hours of accomplishing important tasks that, otherwise, would have been
neglected and not gotten done.  In addition
to being able to take care of bills and other daily obligations, I was here to
go through the five days of repeated efforts to repair my broken furnace (thank
God, the Denver temperature was unusually warm), the six days to deal
frustratingly with Comcast to get my email back working so that I could
communicate with family and friends, and to have one other repair done.  Now, if you understand, I felt satisfaction
and actually rejoiced that I was able to complete those tasks.
Secondly, I have spent much
of my home-time going back through some of my older, more interesting essays
and stories for Telling My Story, carefully editing, and (most fun of all)
locating and inserting delightful, augmenting images within the text.  I print them for myself, house them in
plastic sleeves, and file them in several notebooks, separated by subject.  Yes, I do find great pleasure in this.
Third, at home, I have the
pleasures of my fine piano, my TV, my computer, and all the comforts at
home.  And on Sundays, I am able to go
with my friends, whom I call “the usual suspects,” to a particularly good
Perkins restaurant, have a particularly delicious breakfast, and then play the
card-game called “Samba,” a form of canasta at my dining-room table.  That simple ritual is a welcome pleasure and
provides me with comfort more than people may realize.  I, especially, have the pleasure of sharing
that with my friends.
Good friends, kind friends,
are the most important of all these factors. 
I am truly appreciative and perhaps even ecstatic to have these
warm-hearted encounters with my friends, more than they may realize.
And, that brings me to what
finally makes me rejoice.  At this
advanced age, with this, yet another, bout of terrible affliction, I finally
have accepted my situation, doing what I need to do but not fighting the
reality of it.  I have developed over
time a more relaxed, philosophical feeling and attitude that “what will be will
be.”  I am very thankful that, despite my
condition, I feel little pain, very much unlike so many other unfortunate
people.  I rejoice in my cheerful,
positive, interactions with people, medical staff and very good friends.  My positive, uplifting connection to very
good friends is, perhaps, my most powerful treatment, my greatest joy.
Thank you, all my kind
friends.
© 15 Nov
2016 
[This is the
last story (his “Good Bye”) Will Stanton read to the Telling Your Story group
on 21 Nov 2016.  Sadly, he passed into
history and memories on 1 January 2017. 
He is sorely missed. — Editor]
About the Author 
25 Apr 1945 – 1 Jan 2017
I have had a life-long fascination with
people and their life stories.  I also
realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or
fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual
ones.  Since I joined this Story Time
group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
Posted on

In Praise of Drifting by Gillian

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas
Frequently, drifting,
as applied to people, is used negatively. There are those scruffy old bums or drifters
in Depression-era movies; not anyone you want to grow up to be.
“Come
on,”  parents admonish
their adolescent offspring.
“You
need some direction in your life. You can’t
just drift!“
In the old days,
and I mean even before my time, maybe people simply drifted much more than
today. Sons drifted into continuing whatever trade their father had, or farming
the same family acres, and marrying some vaguely distant cousin from the next
valley. Many people did not contemplate these moves, they simply drifted into
the next phase of their lives without considering too deeply what in fact they
actually wanted. They did not have the options we have now; perhaps in fact
just drifting has become a negative because, being privileged to have so many
options, we are committing some act of betrayal by not taking complete
advantage of them.
I didn’t
see myself as drifting, in my younger days, but looking back I see clearly that
I was. I drifted my way through life letting others design major life changes
for me, until I came out to myself.  Then
decision-making on behalf of the real me versus that character acting my part,
became meaningful. But I’ve written about
all that several times before and I won’t
go into that again.
So, in praise of
drifting.
I think most clearly,
most productively, when I’m drifting in that
warm pool of unconsciousness just below the waking level. I am unaware that I’m
thinking, but I must be because I so often wake up with the puzzle solved, the
solution at hand, the decision made, the story written. No, I haven’t
taken to sleep-walking, let alone sleep-writing, but usually I decide, as I
drift just below the surface, what I want to write for Story Time, or on that
difficult Sympathy card, or in that note of apology.
I also love
physical drifting. I lie on my back in the swimming pool, letting every muscle
go limp, and just drift. I empty my brain of all thought, my body of all power,
and just drift. Usually I’m bumped out of my
reverie by an irritated hand or foot pushing me away, or the cold hard edge of
the pool impeding my slow, aimless, motion. Drifting is not as easy as it
sounds!

The first time I
was married, my husband and I, and his children, lived in Jamestown, an old
gold-mining town in the Foothills above Boulder. We had a horse, and the town
is surrounded by National Forest. I loved to spend any free time I managed to
grab, which was not much, riding along the endless trails. But this wan’t
really riding, it was nothing more than sitting on the back of a horse. I
rarely touched the reins, the old mare wandered wherever she wanted; we
drifted. At least I did. She had very definite ideas on where she was heading.
She had been trained as a cutting horse, and, having spent most of her life
among them, I don’t think it had ever
occurred to her that she was not, in fact, a cow. In the summer months herds
summer-pastured in the forests around town, and instinct always told her where
they were on any particular day. She wandered lazily in their direction. I
drifted idly in the saddle. Idyllic moments. Until, reaching a certain
closeness to the herd, she would, without warning, break into an excited gallop
which, inevitably, tore me from my drifting state and propelled me into an
equally excited grab for the reins. After cutting out a couple of resentful
cows from the herd, to keep her hand in so to speak, she settled in to graze
with them for the rest of her life, each time resulting in a battle of wills
when I decided it was time head for the barn. But once her reluctant head was
turned in that direction, she usually being the only one who knew the way home,
we returned to our peaceful pattern, she wandering, me drifting.

We love to drift
when Betsy and I go off on trips in our camper-van. Of course we usually have
some vague plan of when and where, but we have no reservations, no deadlines.
We change decisions frequently; staying longer here, less time there, ending up
in a campground we had no intention of using, or didn’t
even know existed. I have no desire to live like that every day of my life, but
it’s
wonderfully free and relaxing for a while. Just drifting.
I find, as I age,
that actually I do live more like that, more of the time. It’s
so much easier to do a little more delicious drifting in the latter part of
life. Drifting doesn’t go down well with
teachers and bosses. When you have successfully escaped their strictures, it
becomes much easier to decide not to do that today, or to go there next week,
or to stay a few days longer. Betsy and I both find ourselves shrugging a
casual “whatever,”
in
answer to questions to which we would have had very definite responses not so
long ago.
And of course we
are all carried along, inevitably, in the Big Drift, which will deposit us,
sooner or later, in the Big Sleep. We have always known this, but it hangs
around the front of my mind rather more as later becomes less likely
with each passing day, and sooner approaches with indecent haste. I don’t
know what awaits me where the Big Drift pours over the cliffs, but I do know I
will not burn in some eternal fire any more than I shall play the harp upon a
cloud.
I have no fears,
and find myself at odds with my adored Dylan Thomas. Perhaps, for some psyches,
it is healthier to rage against the dying of the light, but I think not for
mine. When that time comes I hope to drift, peacefully, towards the light.

©
July 2014  
About the Author  
I
was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to
the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the
Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised
four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting
myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25
years.
Posted on

A Visit to the Doctor/Nurse by Lewis

This story is not just about one visit to a doctor or nurse. It involves multiple visits to several doctors. But it is all just one story. It does not have a happy ending. Nor does it paint a particularly flattering picture of the state of the health care industry in the U.S. today. The names of the medical professionals have been abbreviated to obscure their true identities. The source material was not my personal recollection primarily, though I was present for each of the events, but was taken from my late husband’s personal journal, written at the time of the events in question.

In the summer and fall of 2003, Laurin’s PSA level began to rise. He was 77 years old. At one point, his PSA level was measured at 19–almost double what was considered to be on the high side of normal. His doctor, Dr. S, recommended a biopsy of his prostate. On this particular visit, Dr. S. was accompanied by a young female intern, who was “shadowing” him. Dr. S. asked if it was OK if she was present for the visit. Laurin consented.

In the corner of the doctor’s office was an unusual type of lamp. It rested on the floor with a long neck that curved from vertical to horizontal and had a small, elongated but high-powered lamp on the end. I asked Dr. S. what the lamp was for. He said, “I’ll show you”. He asked Laurin to lie back on the examination table and pull down his underwear. He placed the light at the end of the lamp under Laurin’s scrotum and turned it on. With the light behind it, the scrotum became translucent. Dr. S. said, “See that? That’s water.” I could not begin to imagine what his point was.

Our next appointment was even more bizarre. It was a Monday. Apparently, Dr. S. was intending to perform the biopsy on Laurin’s prostate. However, Laurin and I were both confused on that point. Consequently, we had not done the necessary prep. In addition, Laurin (and I) had a number of concerns about possible adverse effects of the biopsy. (Biopsy of the prostate involves inserting an instrument through the anus. Triggering the device causes a hollow needle-like device to penetrate the wall of the rectum and snatch a bit of tissue from the prostate gland. If any procedure is likely to invoke queasiness in a male patient, including me, it is this one.)

Dr. S.’s response was to basically go ballistic. After assuring us that complications have arisen from less than 0.1% of such tests he added, “If you (meaning Laurin) were a 5-year-old, I would simply tell you to lie down and take it.”

Well, that was the end of our doctor-patient relationship with Dr. S. We started seeing another urologist, Dr. H. He informed us that Laurin’s PSA was at 9. No explanation was given for the apparent sudden drop. In addition, Laurin’s Gleason Score–a measure of the aggressiveness of the cancer–was 7. These numbers are borderline-positive for Stage IIa prostate cancer.

The recommended therapy for Laurin was radioactive seed implants, also known as internal radiation therapy. This involves inserting a large number of tiny pellets of a radioactive isotope, such as plutonium, into the prostate gland. In Laurin’s case, approximately 70 of these tiny pellets were placed, one-at-a-time, into his prostate by a radiological oncologist, Dr. T. The patient is given a local anesthetic and the process takes less than an hour. The after-effects are mild and short-lived. I was in the waiting room of the doctors’ clinic the entire time. Eventually, the prostate dries up–I won’t say is fried–so that it looks like a date…or raisin, I’m not sure which.

On one of the follow up visits with Dr. H., Laurin was in the examining room waiting for more than a few minutes. When Dr. H. came in, he couldn’t find some instrument that he needed and in a pique of righteous rage at the negligent nurse, with his arm swept everything on the counter onto the floor. I could hear the commotion in the waiting room. Time to look for urologist number three. (Some time later, I asked Dr. T, the radiological oncologist, who was really quite civil and was himself suffering from a rare form of bone cancer, “What is the deal with urologists, anyway?” He answered to the effect that urologists are notoriously emotional creatures, which I interpreted as, “When it comes to your dick, don’t get sick.”

Recently, medical researchers have been telling men that they should stop getting routine PSA tests if over a certain age. They tell us that a very high percentage of us will develop prostate cancer–somewhat like Alzheimer’s Disease–but that it is very slow growing and we could very well die of some other cause first. Laurin was given similar counseling by Dr. H. early on. Yet, doctors don’t put croissants on the table by not treating disease. I don’t know what Laurin’s life would have been like had he not had the internal radiation therapy. I do know what his life was like for years after the treatment, however.

Fecal incontinence, according to Dr. T., affects only about 5% of men who have had the seed implants. Just another seemingly inconsequential factor in balancing prostate cancer treatment against letting it run its course. Other friends of mine who have had surgery to remove the prostate ended up with a perforated rectum or lifelong impotence. In terms of the impact upon a man’s quality of life after age 75, I would have to say that fecal incontinence must be the worst of the three side effects. The horrors Laurin and I went through are too embarrassing and humiliating to attempt to describe here. Let me just say that they led to him having to put severe restrictions on his social life, undergoing a colostomy, and suffering the complete loss of his self esteem.

Let me end this diatribe with this caveat: the medical profession will never say “No” to a decision to fight cancer with everything you’ve got. Medical costs during the last year of life account for an enormous chunk of Medicare dollars expended. In America, we tend to believe in “fight to the last ounce of your strength” or, as Dylan Thomas wrote:

“Do not go gentle into that good night,


Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light”.

However, if the light has faded to a dung brown, perhaps it’s dying be a blessing.

© 22 June 2013 




About the Author


I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.