“Anger is one letter short of danger.” (Eleanor Roosevelt)

It’s a beautiful early autumn morning; the sun is shining, the breeze from my terrace is calm and welcoming, and I feel angry. 

It’s the type of anger that builds, like a vacuum cannister that’s been accumulating dust, dirt and pet hair and hasn’t been emptied in a while.  It’s the type of anger that tells you to stop cosplaying the spiritually enlightened guru and encourages you to get down in the mud with the rest of the world.  An anger that shifts your mindset from picking up the phone to schedule a Mass to be said in a deceased loved one’s memory to thinking, Eh, maybe a little purgatory will be good for them.  An anger that tells the small, invisible devil poking at your shoulder, I see you. Now lay off.  I’m on it…

Thank goodness it doesn’t last long. But it is frightening because it comes from a place of clarity I hadn’t possessed until the last decade or so of my life. Cancer ripped the blinders from my eyes and my body obeyed—I see things with a clarity that is unsettling to me, a mind and body completely sober and free from any alternative substances, and a self-righteousness that needs to be kept in check and knocked down from time to time.

I think what provokes me the most—aside from telemarketers, to whom I obligingly give my time when I realize they’re young, likely new to the workforce and reading from a script, all the while wanting to say, but don’t, “Just get to the point”— is the behavior of adults I know who should know better.   The people who claim to be aware and astute, yet are dismissive and inconsiderate to the realities of others.

I’ll pull a few grumbles from the files:

Cancer is a doozy of a disease. Don’t believe me, ask someone you know who’s experienced it. Not only does it rob from your physical body, but it robs emotionally from even the strongest of minds—a category in which I place myself—causing you to question and second-guess its motives and next move.  Even when you’re considered in remission or NED/NEAD (“no evidence of disease / no evidence of active disease”) it lurks.  Be a considerate friend or family member.  Don’t ping their phone at 10:30 p.m. the night before a scan with a nonsensical text and don’t suggest alternative methods of healing you know nothing about.  Know your place.  Be compassionate.   

If you’re going to be one of those friends who calls someone you haven’t spoken to in years—and yes, this happened to me in recent years—listen, share and don’t aggravate. Pick up where you last left off, but understand that life moves forward in different directions.

A male friend I’ve known for most of my life called me a couple of years ago to catch up after years of separation. Entertaining at first. “What’s new? How’s life? yada yada yada…” I quickly sensed the purpose of the call: a single man, now in his mid-to-late 60s and alone after a brief, early, and childless marriage, who now finds singledom and his impending twilight years frightening. Pull out the black book and scour for any remnants of the past who may be willing to take the bait.

Here’s the kicker: if you want to stay in the good graces of past remnants, it’s probably best not to text them at 7:01 a.m. the next morning with a political tirade you forgot to interject into your initial conversation, all because you disagree with them.

Ahhhh. That felt good. Now I can go about my day, in the sunshine with cartoon bluebirds on my shoulder instead of a pitchfork-poking agitator. Purge people, purge.

And should you meet anyone who says they never become irrationally or suddenly angry, don’t accept any wooden nickels from them.