Journal Entry no. 1

Chapter the Fourth

Im not a writer. My wife says I should be. The things I wanted to say I never quite got around to. It was a mess. I wanted my children to know how much I cared for them. I still do. Perhaps now is as good a time as any to tell them. What do I know. The sun shone brighter today than it seems it has ever done, but maybe that’s the efect of chemo. I never wanted to die. Something always told me I wouldnt, maybe the efect of love. Im never quite sure. Did I take my pill this morning? What about lunch? It’s now past 3pm in the afternoon and Im not sure I even remember the last time I drank a sip of water from my cup. Perhaps that’s what wives are for, to remind you. All she does is remind me of the years spent in happiness. I was unsure of it. Happiness, I mean. I never knew quite what it meant. Maybe now it means easeful — light. I’m not a writer. I cant arcticulate. I can hardly even speak now, with this inhaeler making my throat dry. What day is it? Where has the time gone? Will I still be here tomorow? Anyway, my doctor says I should gournal and that it will help the time pass more “gracefully”. But these things take time, he says. To see if a “treatment” works. This will take time. To leave for posperity my thoughts almost feels like a violation into something I never knew could be violated, my own mind. I am anguishing over here (my daughter taught me that word back then, when I could learn more easily then now) and each stroke hurts. It cuts into the remanedor of what’s left. But perhaps thats a good thing — the pain. That way I can now apreciate the happiness (that’s what my father said) and maybe I can also finally live. Because I didnt truely understand happiness until now, and didn’t that make my life incompete? Without this dying process (thats what it feels like) could I say I have truely understud what living is? I dont think so. At any rate, these things are forin to me. But not as forin as my body feels now. Who am I? A cancer patient. And that is all which matters. Perhaps this will be the last time I rite to myself and to you. All I know is I wish I didnt have to, but somthing moved me (is that the expression?) and I know I must. Jorge Gonzalez sometime in spring - 2002.