Dec 24, 2019

Yesterday while waiting for chair 15, after passing out cookies to the hospital greeters and staff, I was joined by a gentleman who was waiting on his ‘maintenance medication’ for stage 4 prostate cancer. After exchanging festive pleasantries and a laugh about my bright hat, he explained to me that he was doing well, the treatments have been effective, but that living without hormones has been a trip. “I just never imagined this would happen,” he repeated, “I didn’t think this would be my life.” He explained he isn’t bothered by things like he used to be, which is nice. But, he added that his interest in socializing and intimacy had changed, too. What bothered him most of all was that he didn’t care anymore. As a professor of music, he had previously kept the students on tempo, but without testosterone the sluggish notes he left ignored. “It’s fine, I guess, I don’t care,” he shrugged. I gazed down at his long fingernails, and asked, “classical guitar?” Yes, art and instrument his true and tried company.

I wished the man a happy holiday and safe blessings as we were called in our opposite directions for magical poisons, him behind the fake garland for injection and me through the colored lights for infusion.

I woke last night with the single line, “Oh, come all ye faithful, joyful, and triumphant,” on repeat in my mind. As I lay awake with a sour stomach from treatment, I thought about those lines. I’ve met many faithful this year. Those who show up, despite not believing their reality. I have seen the joy fill and seep out from the cracks of their grief. And, amazingly, I’ve seen what it means to be triumphant- to lean into life while seeking beauty, despite the “this sucks and I don’t know.” There are a lot of things that used to bother me about Christmas and life that don’t seem to matter anymore, and I’ll let it be. Celebration is mine. Where there is joy, where there is light, oh, come. Let’s gather.