Wisdom of MY Words

Random Musings & Book Reviews

11 July
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09 July 2017 – Cannabis Oil Journey

Juan Carlo’s hairy, soft, naked legs were entwined with mine this morning and I was warm and cozy, laughing. I was reading aloud an article in The Guardian and Zack barged into the room at 07:40 hours. His energy was jittery, and it felt like he’d been up all night. Like he’d been up all night working himself up. I knew the look in his eyes just as I’d seen it in my own way back in the day, and as I saw the tired eyes of the men I loved: Scott, Jon, Geoff, but not David. There was always something reliable about David. That’s what I liked about him. He never felt like Jon or Geoff, ever so reliable men completely infatuated with me, my brightness.

He barges in, just as I was thinking about Seth. The name itself, and it’s meanings and where it originated. Seth, in case you don’t know, is the third son of Adam. It’s seriously flabbergasting how people can believe anything from the Bible in a literal manner. I looked up Seth because I wasn’t sure where it was mentioned, if it was Genesis or later, as it’s been awhile since I took a look through the good book. This author seems to believe that Adam and his relatives lived for 900 years. If the earth is only 5000 years old to these people, or is it only 2500 years to the religious believers? Anyway, if these people lived almost 1000 years, Adam by golly would’ve been alive and could have written a book! Or two! He lived almost 1000 years? He watched the worlds change many times, and yet this author believes that has to be accurate.

Everyone tells you that the Bible is parables, and I tell these people that the average religious joe thinks the parables are real! The early chapters of Genesis are concerned with the origin of the Earth and all life, including man. The Author’s intention is seemingly to present the grand picture first and then add certain details throughout the rest of Scripture; this is called Progressive Revelation. All we are told about Adam’s offspring is that the first son was named Cain, the second son named Abel [Genesis 4:1-2 ], then after Abel’s murder, another son named Seth was “begotten when Adam was 130 years old.” After that, Adam “begot sons and daughters” [Genesis 5:3-4]. This same passage also tells us that Adam lived for 930 years [Genesis 5:5]. Therefore, according to Scripture, Adam and Eve’s family consisted of sons Cain, Abel and Seth, plus a minimum of two other sons and two daughters, giving a total of seven children. However, accepting that Adam, and likely Eve, lived for 930 years, seven children would be the minimum number, but does this seem reasonable?

Genesis chapter five presents the genealogies of the descendants of Adam where we are simply given the father’s name, his age when he “begot” the first son and the total number of years he lived. With the exception of Enoch, all of these pre-flood descendants of Adam lived a minimum of 777 years, while most were over 900 years. In each instance, the record simply gives the name of the first son, then adds “and begot sons and daughters.” With these words, the minimum number of children per family then becomes five. But is this really a credible number?

Living over 900 years means living ten times longer than we do today. Proportionately, the female period of fecundity – today 30 to 35 years – would then be about 350 years. At a rate of only one child every seven years, this would result in 50 children for Adam’s immediate family. Interestingly, two ancient books written about the time of Christ but not having the authority of inspired Scripture confirm these figures. The Book of Jubilees, whose author is unknown, was written in the second century B.C. and states that Adam and Eve were in the Garden of Paradise seven years [p.49]. Then Eve gave birth to her first child, Cain, between the ages of 64-70, or the same numbers as the age of the Earth, anno mundi. Eve’s second child, Abel, was born seven years later – between the years 71-77 anno mundi [p.51]. The total number of Adam’s children is not given in this work; however, it is found as a footnote in The Works of Josephus where it states: “The number of Adam’s children, as says the old tradition, was 33 sons and 23 daughters.” In view of their longevity, these appear to be reasonable figures while it would have to be said that, sinners though they were, Adam and Eve had faithfully obeyed God’s first commission to: “be fruitful and multiply …” [Genesis 1:28].

“References: Charles, Robert Henry [translator]. 2005. The Book of Jubilees or the Little Genesis. Original publishers: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, UK. Published 2005 by: Ibis Press, Berwick, Maine. Whiston, William [translator]. The Works of Josephus. Hendrickson Publishers [First AD 93, this ed.1804] Book 1, Chapter 2, verse 3 footnote.”

I wonder sometimes I feel as if I got this horrible cancer because I am so bright. It seems to me at this stage of the game that bright things end up tarnished by life. My polish has certainly been worn away. I feel like I’m describing The Velveteen Rabbit, and that’s not what I’m going for. I’m tired, I guess is what I’m saying. I now understand my grandparents better than I have before. America is a country that is flying by the seat of its pants. If you think I’m implying head up the arse, I am. In America, facts are optional, and if you didn’t earn it legally, by your own means, you are looked at askance. What is wrong with you, exactly, the looks seem to say. It’s shaming, questioning, and condemning all at once. I’m blind in one eye, I can’t drive, let alone work and I don’t know what I would do if I hadn’t saved so much. But when you are being charged $25,000/year for health care, well your life is going to change pretty drastically if you 1) get sick or 2) lose your resources. As a white collar worker who needs her eyesight to function in order to work, I have no idea what my place in the world is anymore.

Wacky Mini Me admits he’s been up all night. He’s crying and sad and pouty. He reeks of body odour and smoke and I feel incredibly sad as I hold his thin, crying frame. He’s kept himself up all night listening to his brother’s Sound Cloud. If you’ve been reading my Facebook, you know he’s incarcerated. He’s crying and all upset and demands that I bring his brother home after he gets out in September or October. Mini Me is forgetting that I am slated to die. I also just don’t have the bandwidth for the oldest or even the youngest. Like I’ve said before, I am just tired. I want to get out all the fascinating things I’ve read and examined and I want to write and sell, get back on top of it. I know I should join a writer’s group too. I was reading interviews in The Guardian with actors and writers and other British artists and they talked about a turning point where they knew they were mortal and that kept them hustling and being artistic. For me the opposite is true. I miss my craft but I felt invincible. I also felt like I deserved some fun. Swinging dicks, whatever, but after my mother beat me and gave me horrid insecurities, I felt like I’d better party hard. And I did. I enjoyed my career. I enjoyed drinking. I enjoyed the kids. I enjoyed Juan. Now I am feeling my mortality and know that I have to be writing every day even if it’s my rambling thoughts all over town.

The medical safety net in America is called Medicaid since I am under 65. I have called Minnesota Care, which is the Affordable Care Act’s Minnesota arm, twice. The first time they told me they were unable to adjust my medical data based on illness, it had to be on income, and they could not put zero for my income this year. Then there is a Breast Cancer Legal resource Juan found on the Internet and I’ve called them twice and they’ve not called back. It’s been a week since the first call. There are literally no resources that I have been able to successfully acquire. I spent $3000 on CO2 extract oil, another $400 so far on CBD oil (shocked to find out that’s just trim—and then I think why don’t we juice the trim? Why don’t dispensaries sell trim?) Another $2500 for the Colorado trip in general. All that money and I have to somehow pay back my retirement for the money I’ve spent on insurance, and the above.

What floors me is that this is creating a real hardship and I have no idea what we are supposed to do. Only something like .3% of the population spends more than 10% of their income on medical expenses, so I don’t know how other people afford this, but this is why I’m scared. I have a limited number of resources. Juan doesn’t have life insurance. If something happens to my husband, and I still am blind in one eye, I’m going to be forced to go into sex work because, really, what the hell else am I going rot do? In order to afford this insurance I have to earn $8500/month because I have to clear $5000 after taxes! Medical costs are literally $2000-3000/month if you pay your premiums and then what you can of the deductible every month. That’s more than my mortgage! Last year our joint premium for Juan and I, no kids, was $1300/month! Our mortgage is less by $300! I want to know how these destitute people do it.

That’s enough rant about that for now, I’ll move onto blindness and feeling isolated mixed with a little fear. I know you understand fear, what with the London terror attacks and all, but this is the fear of something so unknown. I remember feeling a real fear when my mother deliberately called the cops on me and created fake charges to have me locked up, so I could, as she said, “Learn how the other half lives.” I’m sure that’s the reason I say I don’t think I’d survive, or my default job if I can’t do intellectual work is sex work. It’s a default because I befriended the women I was a stripper with and their lives were much harder than my own. I’ve always inherently known how lucky I was, with my grandparents, with Nana Davis, with a fancy pants expensive private school and no debt post college. Fully able to pay for my own post-bac work like my MFA, even if I’d decided a PhD was the thing, I could’ve done that, but realize on this end of things, again, that I am always and eternally grateful that I am creative, resourceful, meh, even bright, and I need to live every day like it’ll be my writing last.

I read things like this, and get scared: I’m dying and only have a few weeks to live says a woman on 16 February 2016. Kathy has pelvic, small bowel, and rectum cancer as well as pancreas and liver. Her doctors decided to feed her through a PIC line but after vomiting her food for a week the hospital has decided to cut off the PIC line feeling. I’m totally heartbroken, this 46 year old woman says. I always believed I would be healed. I’ve juiced, attended a herbalist, reiki, visualisation, meditation, positive thinking, the list goes on. But I’ve been told there’s nothing that can be done. I had always suffered from anxiety and problems from childhood and went to counseling when I had cancer 5 years ago. I truly feel my life is only just beginning and now I’m dying.

How can I make peace with dying? I was online shopping last week buying loads of clothes for the year ahead I was so sure I would be healed. I’ve just read Anita Moorjani’s book Dying to be Me who had an amazing Near Death Experience and from what she says there is nothing to fear from death and I do believe that. I just feel heartbroken because I don’t feel my time on earth is finished. I have so many hopes plans & dreams.

I want to make a difference in the world. I know it’s obnoxious and super vain of me, but I like to think that I’ll be remembered as a Howard Zinn. How arrogant of me, but I could have seen Christopher Hitchens and I as friends. Talk about bright! Prince, George Michael, and Michael Jackson, all died and they were around my age. Sure, perhaps a bit older, but not by much. Just because I believed I’d live into my 90s because all my grandparents paved the quinquagenarian path ahead of me. I married someone younger because I sincerely thought I’d be alive much, much longer. His grandma lived a long time, and his dad lived into his 80s, so I always figured when he died I’d be close enough to 90 to call it a day and die. And then bad food choices, environmental contaminants, stress, booze, stress and booze, work and booze, work and booze and stress and fighting with Juan all added up to a blasted tumor! Just for real! I was so sick on the Letrozole. So sick. I was angry too. And in pain. Awful grinding bone pain. My hair was straw like too, just like yours. Gut health! I’m floored that when I mentioned gut health and losing weight to the oncologist I loved, Dr. Stuart Bloom, he told me that there was no need. He didn’t think it’d help. He wanted me to hunker down, take my chemo like a compliant child listening to G-d. Take his pills, eat when I could, and it’d all work itself out. His literal words were: “It’s not necessary.” Then it turned into a looks thing, and he said, “You look fine the way you are, you don’t need to lose weight.”

I was fat. I was fat because I made myself fat. I just wanted some damn peace. Prior to getting fat I was hit on by all and sundry. Men and women, all dogs. The DH could be in the room and some guy would be trying to flirt with me hoping for some happy McEnding. Right after I lost the weight and the extensions were in men were back to hitting on me. I like the way I look and find it incredibly disturbing that men think I’ve dolled up for them. Exhausting. So arrogant.

I’ve basically spent the past 7 months reading and listening to videos and films about nutrition and diet. I’ve given up meat, I know I need to give up alcohol but I’m struggling there, no white flour, no extra sugar, and I take my probiotic yoghurt that’s called Coconut Cult. It bothers me that I don’t believe oncologists know a damn thing about how chemo works, radiation, let alone cannabis oil! Gah!

So, I was going to tell you the story of what I did after Denver. I’d taken your email after sending it, and took sections and posted them on my blog and then flushed them out with more content. Your letter was a really good start for my journey. I wrote you about the journey and starting the CO2 oil. Because I did that, I actually no longer have your email. I was going to try and pull together the relevant posts and put them in an email, but it’d be loads easier for you to head on over to missyphillips.com and start reading. xxoo

 
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