Anger?

Chuck and I are having breakfast at Oriole 9. “It makes me furious,” I tell him, “all these people writing about how good cancer was for them, how they developed a fresh outlook on everything, how cancer changed their lives for the better. All so self-congratulatory.” I’m talking through my hat, really, having read only about this kind of book, not the books themselves.

“I’m so angry,” I say, “that all this shit makes Catherine feel inferior.”

Chuck looks at me. “You might not be angry at them,” he says, “you might be angry that Catherine got cancer.”

This is a wonderfully provocative remark.

“Thank you,” I say, “this gives me something to think about.”

But I’m not sure it’s true.

Anger is a luxury. Anger wants answers, retribution, reasons, something that makes sense. Anger wants a story, stories help us make sense out of everything. But while we scramble to help those who need it, who has time for anger? Who has time to make sense out of anything? There is only what is. Anger is a distraction. Anger removes me from grief, and the opportunity to be helpful.

Am I angry? No. Catherine is alive.