My reader comment: Gravy days is how I have described my entire life, as someone who was remarkably born dead, with no breathing or heart beat, as a very premature baby 59 years ago. Mine is a life of pure gravy, otherwise destined not to be, but for the concentrated efforts of caring people I will never have the chance to thank. That is exactly what I say when I speak to my oncology providers now, as I try to reassure them that whatever they can do for me now to treat my always fatal cancer should be considered a success. It has ALL been a success, every extra day of life, for someone who should have been my mothers third miscarriage. They would love to save me now, and cannot. These gravy days since my second cancer diagnosis have been remarkable for mysterious reasons. As soon as the word of my biopsy results unfolded through my psyche, the ramifications of mortality lapping up against all preconceived notions of how life would unfold in ordinary times, this inexplicable wave of kindly grace drenched me like a cloudburst; a clean, clear feeling of utter freedom, relief, urgency, and celebration: My time has come!. Gravy days have a unique quality of heightened experience. I know I will never pass this way again. Like a young child am I, seeing things as if for the first time, seeing splendor and miracles in the tiniest manifestations of existence. More illuminated than ordinary days, gravy days are the last gift of my lifetime, and every new awakening astounds me.
Posted on: Sun, 23 Nov 2014 23:15:42 +0000
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