The Universe Speaks

There's an old joke. A really old joke. Like an over-one-hundred-year-old joke. With many variations. Here's one. 

Someone comes upon a young boy shoveling his way through a pile of manure. (This is a polite version.) It's Christmas morning the way some tell it. Anyway someone--I would hate to think it was his parents for reasons far too complex to go into here--see him and ask him why he is shoveling that manure. And he says "There's got to be a pony in here somewhere."

Over the past six years I, an individual who always considered herself a lucky person, have come to identify with that boy. And, now I look at that kid that I used to admire and think maybe it is time he stopped shoveling. 

If I look back I think maybe the metaphorical manure pile started appearing in my life in March 2020. My fifth Meg Daniels mystery came out in February. My publisher gave me a giant-size poster of my cover. I was ready to take it on the road to promote "Greetings from Ventnor City." I did one book club. Then Covid. How could I complain? I was not alone and others had much bigger problems. But still. It was the first tiny little speck of dirt that would become a pile.

During Covid I talked about how cancer rates would surge because people were unable to get their regular check-ups. Turned out I was people.

As I left the doctor's office after getting the news that I was going to have to do chemotherapy, I recall saying in the hallway--I didn't even wait to get in the car--"This is going to be the best year of my life." Spoiler alert: it was not.

I tell everyone that I was either the most optimistic person on earth, or the dumbest. I am no optimist. My view of life is so bleak I'd be afraid to share it except with Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, or Camus, three guys I'd never hang out with because frankly, even before death, they were not really a barrel of laughs. 

I wasn't really good at chemo. I'd projected three to four days of sickness and fifteen days of travel between treatments. Turned out to be nineteen days of sickness and no days of travel. Oddly enough aside from my final treatment, the day before and the day after weren't bad. For four treatment cycles. 

I turned up for the fifth treatment with a speech prepared for my oncologist begging her to let me stop. Before I saw the doctor, the nurse took one look at me and no plea was necessary. Within five minutes, the nurse, the PA, and my oncologist were clustered around me. I 'd failed chemo. Add more dirt to the pile. 

Surgery had to be rushed so I could only have one breast removed to fit into the schedule. I'd lose more time having  a second surgery. Two more scoops of excrement on the pile. No problem. I'd keep shoveling.

Other scoops onto the pile included:

*Bad reaction to chemo-lite.

*Frozen neck from follow-up drug.

*Reaction to ailments caused by drugs used in extreme dental work thought to be result of chemo. 

Those problems kept me down for over three years. As the end of each treatment approached, I told people I would be back. I made plans. I managed to do one or two things before getting knocked down again.  I was far from being back.

In 2025, I thought for sure the time for my return to a fully active life had arrived. 

Then a few more scoops of dirt appeared in my pile. Two biggies;

*Tripping myself and breaking right wrist and causing a compression fracture in my back. 

I'd started la series of novellas: Meg Daniels Mystery Weekenders. First two went great. Third just needed a final edit when I broke my wrist. My right wrist. No typing for months followed by months of hunt and peck. Finally got that done. Ready to roll. Right. Yet another scoop of dirt appeared.

*Needing to move knee replacement up four months.

Novella number four was just about ready for summer 2026, when I got up on Memorial Day and found I couldn't walk. The surgery I thought could wait until November couldn't. During rehab my hands worked. My brain? Not so much. Drugs and I are not a good match.

How did I react as the pile got bigger?  I kept shoveling. 

But the dung I was accumulating did not all come from medical issues. While my body was seeking revenge for years of neglect, some issues arose on the business side of my life. An example. I wrote another novel for Plexus Publishing "Strangers in the Avalon Dunes" but a glitch at Amazon delayed the paperback version. Oh yeah, and Plexus's distributor, Baker and Taylor, went out of business.

I greeted each bit of news as a sign from the universe that I should just stop writing (along with all related activities), settle down, and develop a taste for daytime soap operas. Yet somehow I find myself with that shovel in my hand.

I can no longer say I admire the boy in the joke's attitude. I can't say that I think he is doing the right thing. And, yet I am behaving just like him. But he was a boy. I am no longer a girl. I am no longer a woman without a clarifier before it. Middle-aged. Older. Elderly. Take your pick, but I'd prefer you not select elderly. 

If I were twenty-two my path would be clear. Overcome adversity every time. But enough is enough. 

There was a term I heard in the great philosophical treatise "Please Don't Eat the Daisies." Critic Walter Kerr feared he was on a "downelator." I share that fear. Things are moving in only one direction. Down. 

In no way do I believe there is a pony at the bottom of that escalator, but I can't help myself. I stay the course. I dig the shovel in one more time. Just to be sure.