Transition Girl

Why transition girl?... Best answered by a quote from the Iliad....."The soul was not made to dwell in a thing; and when forced to it, there is no part of that soul but suffers violence."

Friday, April 12, 2013


I remain distracted from my writing. There is a certain irony to this outcome because I am at home full time from my day career at the moment managing the distraction. It is such a rarity for me to have this much 'spare' time and struggle to focus on my writing passion.

His name is Rupert. He is an unexpected and unwelcome houseguest who took up residence about a month ago. He was lurking in the shadows before then though I was unaware of his presence but for a vague level of discomfort that I attributed to the pangs of life in a big city. Vermin are part and parcel of inner city dwelling. Much like the hipster professionals and their young noisy children strewn across the neighbourhood. Precocious teenagers prone to temper tantrums and growth spurts.

Rupert keeps me awake at night. It is hard to get comfortable given the amount of noise he makes. Just when my eyes are closing and I am moments away from slumber, there's the echoing sound of his shouting that makes me shudder.  I tiptoe delicately around during the day to avoid encounters but somehow he seems to find me no matter what I do to steer clear of him.

I have called in a barrage of experts performing multiple diagnostic tests to find his nest and figure out ways to eradicate him. They have a working theory and solution. They believe cutting off his food supply will starve him of life. There is one big problem with the proposed solution. His food supply is mine. Annihilating him might well be my ruin as well.

In the interim, the tight rope fine line I walk involves laying out daily poison that keeps him at bay and leaves me groggy in the process because of its potency. As far as solutions go, it can only be temporary. I desperately want him evicted and need the scalpel skill of others to cut him out. Waiting for the right moment to perform this critical operation to salvage my ongoing health is proving challenging. There are so many uncertainties about what might follow the attempt. And in the meantime my wellbeing deteriorates because of the amoral malcontent squatter who randomly swipes at me at every opportunity.

Rupert is a neuroendocrine pancreatic cancer. According to the experts, he is a very rare animal. He is less aggressive than his closest cousins who can take as little as weeks to maul their host to death. I have a fighting chance at least to hold my parasite at bay for longer, with any luck long enough to unshackle him before he spreads his roots. The one home I wish to see his horrible hide reside in permanently is a formaldehyde filled jar. Only with his passing will I have sustained life.

Is it strange that I have chosen to name my tumour Rupert? It seems apt to me to give him a name. It helps me to visualise the cause of my distraction.