Waves of Pleasure

There’s a scene from a movie that I’ve loved for too long, alas, in secret. It’s from the musical “Annie,” perhaps the reason my love remains a secret. Annie’s being shown around Daddy Warbucks’ pimped crib when suddenly the staff, not knowing a better way to clarify daily household tasks, bursts into song and dance, showering Annie with endless luxury as she bats her eyes, sighing, “I think I’m gonna like it here.” C’mon, who doesn’t like to indulge? Who doesn’t quietly purr at the taste of warm tollhouse cookies? I always have, but then usually remind myself afterward to add an extra ab crunch to my workout the next morning. My pleasure has only been acceptable when it has been accompanied by a decent amount of guilt. I’ve always resisted indulgence. Everything in moderation, right?

And then cancer. And that rule went right out the window when I woke up at 6:30am desperate for a burrito, fettuccini alfredo, French fries, two chocolate shakes and three snickers bars. It’s called survival, the body balancing one extreme force moving through it with another extreme force, trans fat. I spent my first year of chemo approaching this “over” indulgence with the enthusiasm of an amoeba. “I guess I’ll let myself take a third nap today” or “I suppose a massage wouldn’t kill me in the middle of chemo.”

But in Hawaii, indulgence is a finely crafted art. Excess is noticeable. It walks around with a sunburnt face the color of a lobster, drunkenly vomiting its six maitais. But those who have refined the experience know how to surf pleasure’s blissful waves impeccably. So as my Hawaiian ohana has stepped forward with their healing offerings, each has brought a wave more pleasurable than the last. A bowl of fresh fruit left on my table, perfectly shaped by an artist’s eye. A spontaneous haircut—from a celeb stylist—that launches a discourse on cosmic attraction. Laundry cleaned. Coconuts hacked. Body rubbed. Each gesture nearly belts “we know you’re gonna like it here!” I could snub the generosity, true. In a parallel life where I hadn’t learned to cling so desperately to even small pleasures to survive, I would. But right now, allowing myself to continuously connect to the world’s unending supply of generosity—without guilt or shame—is not only important, it is essential to healing. So I suppose that means I have something to tell you. I like Annie. A lot.

OK. I feel better.