Sometimes Words Fall Short

There haven’t been many words here in the last few months. Up until the last post, I had been pretty honest about how I was doing, what it felt like to be trapped in this sick body. But in this last little bit, while I was finishing up the second round of chemo, healing up from my surgery, gearing up for another one, and spending every last possible moment I could out on the water, I couldn’t find the words in me to talk about it. The chemo had finally won, I gave in to it, as body and brain squeezed through a meat grinder of physical and emotional agony. It took everything I had just to do it. To get from one end of the day to the other. To endure myself. And I wouldn’t have done myself justice trying to explain it all anyways. Sometimes, words just fall short. Instead, I set out to sea with all the force of a spent wave and let the wind and water make all the noise for awhile.

I am within days of the anniversary of my departure to Berlin. A year ago I packed my bags, found the lump, boarded the plane. For a few months in Europe I was a sponge. I soaked up every moment as if it could be snatched away at any moment. I took chances on things that would have had me thinking twice back home. I met interesting, wonderful people, I danced, I ate crepes every day. In the early mornings, in my studio in Berlin, I would photograph myself. I didn’t know for sure what was wrong, but I had a gut feeling, as the dots began to align and German doctors ranted, and I wanted to capture myself in photographs before my life, my body, was potentially altered for good. I allowed myself to see what was coming only through the lens. I tucked each days photos away, I tucked the worry away, and went on living. There was no need to talk about it. The morning was over.

But there is something to tell this morning.

A year after I looked at myself through the lens of my camera, decidedly a different girl, I AM a different girl. I beat breast cancer. I have been declared free to go. The cancer is in remission, last week’s ancillary node dissection surgery revealing 13 out of 13 lymph nodes negative for cancer cells (unlike the last surgery)! And… I woke up with the most beautiful set of knockers a girl with cancer could ever ask for.

I won this round.

And still, sometimes words fall very, very short. There are so many things I want to say. There was a winter of such discontent, the depths of which no chart would dare mark. And as these depths changed with the tide, so too, did the course. On shore, the hard choices were riddled with the flotsam and jetsam of doubt and fear. But out there, an invincible summer began. Saltwater snuck it’s way past the poison, back into my veins. A sailboat appeared on the horizon, with crisp white sails gasping for fresh salt air. My hair came back in whisps then, curls. Wool was traded for silk. With a co-conspirator at my side and plenty of rum at the ready, we cast off on a permanent starboard tack to find secret beaches, breath-stealing sunsets and rising moons, constellations in the quiet, rocking dark of sea-damp nights. With fish jumping and seagulls squawking, we floated away whole days in the seaweed of Smuttynose, arms outstretched, the sun and saltwater righting us, healing wounds our blue-green eyes couldn’t see. Laughing our salty heads off at the very notion of peril. Where the waves whispered wild and sweet, I wasn’t sick. If words fail you now, sailor, blame the halyards. We did everything right.

And this morning, as I lay here in my bed by the sea, Asher beside me, the rain on the roof, leaves on the ground, the waves crashing within earshot, the Isles of Shoals floating within sight, in a house built by the Thaxter’s themselves, I am a soul in division from itself. Heriocally lost. Heriocally found. And I can tell you with absolute certainty these next few words…

I wouldn’t have traded this last year for anything.

Not one precious salty drop of it.

And this probably makes no sense to anyone at all.

Like when they tell you that you’re 38 years old and you have cancer.

And then they tell you that you don’t.

Sometimes words fall short.

~ Ali

I’d like to thank my friend, artist Dennis Michael Jones, for inspiring this post. Sometimes your words get me thinking.

Sometimes Words… by Dennis Michael Jones

9 thoughts on “Sometimes Words Fall Short

  1. Jess Dickey

    You are so incredibly amazing…those words are indeed short for how much admiration I hold in my heart for you. Again, I am moved to tears by your words. I am so happy beyond words that you won and you have beautiful knockers to boot. I am looking forward to the day when I get to finally put my yoga mat down next to yours and practice together. Sending love, love love. xoxoxo

    Reply
  2. Amylyn Amberger

    I am breathing in your words and feeling your souls journey…. You have a gift Ali Goodwin…for expression through words and images. I am smiling and my heart is happy for you and all that awaits you. Love and light….

    Reply
  3. Darlene Heon

    You don’t know me but I know about you through Jess Dickey. She told me of your battle and your words were amazing and they DID make sense. So happy you beat the ugly beast! Sail on!

    Reply
  4. deirdre von spiegelfeld

    well, i don’t think i can write anything that will come close to that. you are amazing. which maybe isn’t the perfect word for someone who endured the darkness and reemerged in the light a changed woman. your story, i admit, has struck fear in me, but i am so happy that you have won and moved beyond fear into some kind of something stunning that i cannot possibly imagine. i would like to belt out a really loud, and possibly obnoxious, WOO HOOOOOOO for you!!!!!!!!!!!

    Reply
  5. Jean Williams (Miss Jean)

    The word amazing was used so much in your friends comments and that word is so true. You have a very honest and unique way of telling us about your life. You are are truly AMAZING. So happy to hear that you and your doctors beat that cancer. Your future is wide open and I am sure you will live your life to the fullest. Love you.

    Reply

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