I saw a little black spot on my back today. I was checking where I had bumped it earlier to see if I’d done any damage, and instead I saw the spot.
I am learning at the moment that my body is a wholly neutral thing, and the story of this spot is providing me with plenty of opportunity to get a grasp on it.
Certainly, it’s only a spot, but being Australian is an excellent precondition for melanoma, and thoughts of that possibility preoccupy my mind in the aftermath of the observation.
Death does not overly concern me. I’ve never suffered the degree of fear of it that some people appear to have, so that is fortunate. My first thoughts go instead to E: I wouldn’t want to leave her in the lurch, wouldn’t want to become a burden in her life – her small frame has enough to carry as it is.
And it would be sad to leave this life just as it was getting so good. I would love to celebrate a little longer, grow a little more and enjoy the fruits of my labour.
Who’s to say I won’t? I am not my body anyway. It doesn’t belong to me, it is just something that has been lent to me for the length of its life. It has done so much for me already in that time, and I am so grateful for all its effort, especially after all those years of punishing it. What did it ever do to deserve that treatment?
It is strange – I wouldn’t have thought I was all that attached to it – and maybe I’m not. But there is a sadness at the thought of losing it.
And all this conjecture over a spot! An entire story leading to the very death of this body has been made and all that ever happened is that its eyes looked in a mirror! It is too funny.