I had a dream last night that I wrote a book called The Myth of the Cheerful Frock inspired no doubt by a friends request that I start to wear more colourful clothing. This in the face of my week from Hell with this new diagnosis, rapid change in hormonally based medication and the choice between brain or pain. I thought about the overwhelming need that there is now for everyone to be happy in the middle of a crisis. To put our best face forward. To endure inane comments from well meaning but completely insensitive people. Happy Face. And then thought about my painty, stretched out super comfy t-shirt and yoga pants that are worn almost thin with the texture of life in the last few years. The only thing more comfortable is my flannel nightie which is socially unacceptable for greeting the afternoon. Darling friend. These are the happiest clothing I own. In the closet and drawers there is clothing that comes in more giddy colours and that has an acceptable fit. Those get worn for oncology appointments and the occasional outing taken now. And I will remind you that the paint splatters are from making art. Each colour in itself is a fossil of the creative life lived in it. Favourite memories. Call first the next time you come over and I will self consciously put on a bright red shirt, think of a light hearted anecdote, remember the good times and plaster on a tight faced smile. But the second you leave I will peel them all off and climb back into this scrungy cotton womb. And no smile for anyone unless it is real. And right now the last thing I want is a Cheerful Frock.
Posted on: Sat, 19 Jul 2014 14:18:13 +0000
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