Tag Archives: virginia woolf

12 August 2009: the visible universe

Five months exactly since I saw the surgeon for the first time. Leaving the tutorial on To the Lighthouse, meeting K. at Barons Court tube station and walking to the hospital and treating him horribly. That infernal wait in the hallway, having left K. in Main Outpatients. Shifting again and again the uncomfortable plastic seat, staring at my polka dot skirt (I’ve not worn it since; it seems a harbinger). Saying I did not want K. to come in when their first question was “Are you alone?” And why were there so many people in the room? The terror of all those eyes.

I feel foolish even still–how she knew. How the pathologists knew my terrible diagnosis–just a checkbox or a word to them, a name on a test tube, an address I’ve left, an improbable birthdate that made me 24. I wonder if it gave them pause. And I ignorant of it all, not even worried, ignorant and aloof and impatient, teaching Virginia Woolf and being horrible to my boyfriend.

They knew then, as they know now. The grading, the damage it’s done. Ignorant with a blue stain on my breast, stitches uncomfortable but no longer painful under my arm. In a few hours, I’ll know too. And I can barely begin to brace myself for the possibility of bad news, that it’s spread to the lymph nodes, because I am too beaten down by everything else to be able to process it.

This morning I picked up Virginia Woolf’s Writer’s Diary, which I’ve returned to periodically, but not for quite some time. There, it was 1927, and she had just completed To the Lighthouse. A strange, accidental circularity. I hope this week can mark an end point to this strange and terrible piece of pirated time, rather than picking up where I’d left off after the last traumatic prodding and pathology.

In the meantime the cosmos continues irrespective of my private tragedy. Physical perspective is always striking–as when my plane began its descent into London, following the snaking Thames, over Tower Bridge, the London Eye, St. Paul’s, Buckingham Palace, all discernible as a postcard. In between such experiences one always forgets, somehow–one’s self, one’s own life, becomes magnified almost to the point of distortion. And then sometimes the hills or clouds or stars or multitudes of people re-position you. You become barely discernible, even to yourself.

We’re in the midst of the annual Perseid meteor shower, our planet passing through debris from the Swift-Tuttle comet. I think of it continually, wonder how people can sit in offices and houses, drudging through little lives not thinking of it–this spectacular reminder of how we are bound by gravity to this planet, circumnavigating the sun. Last night I saw several–a spectacularly clear sky with close-seeming stars–the Greeks’ stars. Identifying what constellations I could (Cassiopeia of course, my marker–and then Ursas major and minor, Cepheus, Draco, Hercules, Pegasus’ body later in the night), I thought of everyone I have ever loved, under them, and of the whole of human history, having shared them. Very cosmical and astounding all of it, even without the occasional meteor; on seeing one I could not help but gasp and squeal. I couldn’t reconcile the incredible, breathtaking outer world of the visible universe with the inner world of tea and television–couldn’t understand, either, how K. could not be as excited as I–how anyone could not.

But I gather the memory inside my private mind, and love it. So next time the anesthetist says “think of somewhere you’d rather be” as he holds the oppressive plastic mask over my face and prepares me for surgery, it will be there–

Tonight’s the “peak” apparently, but in southern and central England it’s expected to be too cloudy to see–

the visible universe obscured, how Blakean.

[Lymph nodes are normal. She asks for a smile.]

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9 July 2009: Why is there not a discovery in life?

Another bout of this, a day wasted, hours and hours in bed, wet pillowcase. Pain in my armpit. The inability to do anything–and those horrible lines from Love Story, a movie I haven’t even seen, but which has somehow pervaded our culture like cancer itself: “What can you say about a twenty-five year old girl who died?”

What can you say? Nothing. Nobody’s wife or mother, mother of no ill-formed offspring of feeble brain. And yet you can say a hell of a lot more about the twenty-five year old girl who died than the twenty-five year old girl who lived, surely. Because death is infinitely more interesting, published in the pack of lies that accompany it. It makes me sick.

K. is embarrassed by how I snapped at him in the meeting with the surgeon. I snap beause no one listens–talk and talk and nothing happens; no one listens.

I feel imprisoned here (West Hendred’s a prison; then is the world one). It’s of my own making. It would be a wonderful place to write, were I not losing my mind. Holing up here by myself in bed. The hours, the emptiness, the dust and clutter. Wanting to be left alone, and yet terribly afraid of that condition at the same time.

I imagined of course that coming back from France everything would be “different.” That I would feel energized and inspired and finally feel the impetus to make something of all of the time. Instead, lying across the bed watching Woody Allen films and crying.

— 

Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say ‘This is it’? My depression is a harassed feeling. I’m looking: but that’s not it—that’s not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it?

-Virginia Woolf, Diary, Saturday 27 February 1926 

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23 June 2009: a cry for connection

Awash again with chemo after Dr. S’s U-turn in treatment (a standoff in his office yesterday, his defensiveness and awkwardness and my ever-present frustration and anger)–decision to go ahead with the final two chemo treatments with a view to mastectomy in early August. An awful six days that led up to this: quarrelling with K., bad sex, wanting to distract myself, desperate for intimacy and left ultimately with more and more evenings crying into pillows pathetically. Frustrated that all of this heartache and uncertainty could have been avoided with a little clarity and concern from the hospital. A biopsy date’s still undecided; more and more of this last-minute news. Like the biopsy’s done under general anesthetic and requires an overnight hospital stay. By the way. But what else to do but plug on with the meantime?

I’ve just read Sontag’s early journals–her intensity, beauty, brilliance–at that age, having so surpassed me intellectually/professionally/in experience, in range and depth and meaning of experience. I do wish I were allowed more access to her mind in them–that the journalling were not so fragmentary.

She says:
“In the journal I do not express myself more openly than I could to any person; I create myself…it does not simply record my actual, daily life but rather–in many cases–offers an alternative to it.”
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“The writer is in love with himself…and makes his books out of that meeting and that violence.”
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“To write you have to allow yourself to be the person that you don’t want to be (of all the people that you are).”

I’ve ordered Illness as Metaphor — an egotistical interest, I guess, in the meanings of my own illness (or lack of menaing). Like the search for & disappointment with Sedgwick’s book–a cry for connection.

In the waiting room yesterday, reread Virginia Woolf’s On Being Ill:

“All day, all night the body intervenes; blunts or sharpens, colours or discolours, turns to wax in the warmth of June, hardens to tallow in the murk of February. The creature within can only gaze through the pane–smudged or rosy; it cannot separate off from the body like the sheath of a knife or the pod of a pea for a single instant; it must go through the whole unending procession of changes, heat and cold, comforting and discomfort, hunger and satisfaction, health and illness, until there comes the inevitable catastrophe; the body smashes itself to smithereens, and the soul (it is said) escapes. But of all this daily drama of the body there is no record.”

–pre-empting, perhaps, all the piss and shit in modernism.

I see myself this way: as gazing through the pane/pain of the body. Even as my hand cramps here. It’s something I have always found difficult to imagine about writers, prose writers particularly–how they manage to sit there, inside themselves, and produce–how many times distracted by this restlessness I always seem to have? By hunger and malaise and lethargy and the body’s desire to move, pace, ignore the dreadful submission to the immobile mind…

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