I have serious doubts that anyone reads my blog anymore, and I can’t blame them. I haven’t gone abroad for a few years now, and my slightly twisted point of view has lost the edge it had when I was writing regularly. Alas, writing has always been my last refuge, and despite my best efforts to forego the whole “adult” thing, the emotional fuel that kept me writing a few years ago has dissipated with maturity and responsibility… you know, real life.
But I’m having an emotional voyage that must be shared, if only to be lost into the folded voids of the internet. But it is my voice, and my written voice has always been my strongest.
In early December, Preston asked me to be his wife, and I said yes. And then four months later, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. These are two adventures that I was determined would run only parallel to one another, however, the devastating realization that they are being pulled together like magnets has made me keenly aware that my life cannot be segmented in this way. I am getting married, and I have cancer. They can be separated in grammar, but not in my life.
So what is the purpose of all this? It is what it always was. It’s my online travel journal. The trip this time, like so many before, is to foreign places, one that is expected and exciting, the other completely unexpected and terrifying. One chosen, and the other forced onto me. When questioned I say to people, “I’m overwhelmed, and I can really only seem to talk about weddings or cancer, so you pick what you want to talk about.” But cancer is pervasive, and conversation always flows downslope too easily back to it.