I can't shake the waking remnants of the dream from a few days ago. The sleep was drug fueled and sporadic, hardly restful sleep. I drifted to awareness with a vague dread, a cautious hopefulness that maybe today I would be myself, not the steroid-raging shell of exhausted alertness that stared me down in the mirror. I can't look at that woman in the mirror. Her eyes are spent, yet intense, boring into my own eyes, demanding something, anything other than the status quo.
I woke with the absolute surety that my midsection was a pile of embers, a pile of charred bits of black. A deep pile that would stick to my fingers if I touched my belly. It smelled. I so wanted to touch it and verify that my belly had indeed been incinerated. I did not touch it. It was just a dream, after all.
But it is not just a dream. I yearn to have the landscape of my belly be laid clean. I believe that the way to healing is through treatment. I spend hours visualizing my belly as a pink happy place, with shiny healthy cells. This a step further down the path. I have to push forward through the tangled undergrowth and clean it out. I can visualize the pink healthfulness there, made possible by the passing devastation of chemotherapy.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Monday, February 4, 2013
Fragile
I am fragile tonight. I walk tough and talk tough and usually am tough, but tonight I am fragile. This is the eve of my meeting with my oncologist. The meeting where he reveals to me the results of my CT scan 11 long days ago. I have filled up those days with chores and errands and lunches and day trips. I have new eyeglasses, pretty funky ones I might add. I have clean teeth and gums. I have current insurance policies. I had some fun times these last 11 days. I saw a favorite songwriter perform live. I traveled to a new place for a day. I spent an afternoon walking by the lake, twice. I did all these things to bolster myself. To provide some kind of framework to hang onto. It worked, mostly. There are cracks. I have cracks.
This scan is to reveal the size of my nodule. That's the word they said, nodule. I hear, small. I hope small. I can do small. But what if ...... I can't say it. I thought I had a handle on this. I thought that when I had a recurrence of my ovarian cancer, I would be oh-so-sophisticated about it, so cool and composed. I have done this before, after all. I was pretty tough about my chemo treatments before as well. I would check my go-bag for water, book, tissues, crackers, mints, lip balm. I would dress in comfortable clothes but be sure to wear short sleeves to allow IV access. I took extra care to be oh-so-controlled. I would drive to the hospital, park in my usual area, gather my bags, walk down the stairs, across the street, down the hall, greeting all with a smile and a warm hello. I would make my way to the elevator, push the call button and wait. That's when I just knew that all the eyes in the waiting room behind me were looking at me, they knew I had cancer, they knew I was going to get my chemo upstairs. I would look around, smile and say something friendly to those eyes that weren't really looking at me. The elevator would arrive, the doors would slide open with that swoosh sound, and I would take that big big step inside. The tears would fall then. Always in the elevator. Sometimes other places too, especially towards the end, but always in the elevator.
So tonight I find myself in a figurative elevator, wondering to which floor I will travel. Surgery? Outpatient infusion? I am delicately bonded together by all my activity of these last 11 days. I am preparing for the worst, while hoping for the best. The dread of what my dear oncologist may say to me has my belly in a tight ball of pain. So, please, dear doctor, be gentle with me tomorrow. I am so in control that I might shatter when I hear your words.
This scan is to reveal the size of my nodule. That's the word they said, nodule. I hear, small. I hope small. I can do small. But what if ...... I can't say it. I thought I had a handle on this. I thought that when I had a recurrence of my ovarian cancer, I would be oh-so-sophisticated about it, so cool and composed. I have done this before, after all. I was pretty tough about my chemo treatments before as well. I would check my go-bag for water, book, tissues, crackers, mints, lip balm. I would dress in comfortable clothes but be sure to wear short sleeves to allow IV access. I took extra care to be oh-so-controlled. I would drive to the hospital, park in my usual area, gather my bags, walk down the stairs, across the street, down the hall, greeting all with a smile and a warm hello. I would make my way to the elevator, push the call button and wait. That's when I just knew that all the eyes in the waiting room behind me were looking at me, they knew I had cancer, they knew I was going to get my chemo upstairs. I would look around, smile and say something friendly to those eyes that weren't really looking at me. The elevator would arrive, the doors would slide open with that swoosh sound, and I would take that big big step inside. The tears would fall then. Always in the elevator. Sometimes other places too, especially towards the end, but always in the elevator.
So tonight I find myself in a figurative elevator, wondering to which floor I will travel. Surgery? Outpatient infusion? I am delicately bonded together by all my activity of these last 11 days. I am preparing for the worst, while hoping for the best. The dread of what my dear oncologist may say to me has my belly in a tight ball of pain. So, please, dear doctor, be gentle with me tomorrow. I am so in control that I might shatter when I hear your words.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Hope Eroded
I am chatting with my online ovarian cancer sisters tonight. I do this most nights. We check up on each other, follow progress, cheer success, offer advice, share recipes, ask questions, suffer setbacks, laugh darkly at cancer humor. We have a weirdly intimate connection for a group of women who have mostly never met face to face. But tonight feels different. Tonight is heavy with grief. We have lost 2 sisters. Our dear C, whose kind heart reached out to help others even when she was suffering herself, and feisty B, whose love of life taught us all to never stop. News of more deaths, of other sisters, trickles in tonight. Our conversation turns unconsciously to the details of their lives, how old? what stage? when diagnosed? We are comparing her story to our own. We compare both stories to the statistics. We admonish ourselves for doing this, but we cannot stop ourselves from doing it.
We all know that statistics are just numbers, but when you hear that a friend died and she was 49, stage 3, diagnosed 3 years ago.....and those are your numbers too....man, that gets real. The room gets quiet. Someone says that statistics mean nothing. Someone offers a story that contradicts the numbers, a story from the other side of the numbers, the odds defying story. Someone says "Amen!" Silence. Someone is crying. Someone else just says "fuck". We hug. We go our separate ways for a moment or twenty or a hundred.
The heart of the silence is this, a little part of our hope has died. Our hopes are dampened by what we see happening around us. I hope I don't get cancer. Oh? OK, I hope it's not too bad. Oh? OK, I hope I don't have any complications. Oh? OK, I hope it doesn't come back. Oh? OK, I hope it doesn't come back too fast. Oh? OK, I hope....... gosh, I am afraid to hope.
So why do I choose to hang around a group of women with ovarian cancer? Obviously they are bringing me down, what with all that dying. Maybe I should not be friends with other cancer patients. I will argue that those who are closest to dying are those who are closest to living. We share recipes because we love to eat delicious food. We laugh at ourselves because it's funny, really, even the cancer stuff, really. We ask after each other because we understand not only the heartbreak of a setback, but also the joy of beating back the beast. We encourage each other whenever we can, with empathy (not the head-tilt-of-pity). That's what cancer people do for each other.
The ovarian sisters are back, some of us anyway. We talk about healing. We talk about knitting. We act normal with each other. Someone says "Know what I hope for? I hope to live a good life." Someone says, "Amen."
We all know that statistics are just numbers, but when you hear that a friend died and she was 49, stage 3, diagnosed 3 years ago.....and those are your numbers too....man, that gets real. The room gets quiet. Someone says that statistics mean nothing. Someone offers a story that contradicts the numbers, a story from the other side of the numbers, the odds defying story. Someone says "Amen!" Silence. Someone is crying. Someone else just says "fuck". We hug. We go our separate ways for a moment or twenty or a hundred.
The heart of the silence is this, a little part of our hope has died. Our hopes are dampened by what we see happening around us. I hope I don't get cancer. Oh? OK, I hope it's not too bad. Oh? OK, I hope I don't have any complications. Oh? OK, I hope it doesn't come back. Oh? OK, I hope it doesn't come back too fast. Oh? OK, I hope....... gosh, I am afraid to hope.
So why do I choose to hang around a group of women with ovarian cancer? Obviously they are bringing me down, what with all that dying. Maybe I should not be friends with other cancer patients. I will argue that those who are closest to dying are those who are closest to living. We share recipes because we love to eat delicious food. We laugh at ourselves because it's funny, really, even the cancer stuff, really. We ask after each other because we understand not only the heartbreak of a setback, but also the joy of beating back the beast. We encourage each other whenever we can, with empathy (not the head-tilt-of-pity). That's what cancer people do for each other.
The ovarian sisters are back, some of us anyway. We talk about healing. We talk about knitting. We act normal with each other. Someone says "Know what I hope for? I hope to live a good life." Someone says, "Amen."
Friday, January 11, 2013
Words That Haunt
Word that haunt me:
Chemistry TA yelling at us, her organic chemistry students: "You guys are way too careless with that benzene. Some of you guys have it up to your elbows when you're washing your glassware. It's a known carcinogen. Don't come cryin' when you have cancer in 20 years."
My oncologist when relating the risk of colonstomy: "It's 100% risk if it happens to you."
Words found on a card from a recently deceased friend: "Let's get together and let's make it happen sooner rather than later."
Chemistry TA yelling at us, her organic chemistry students: "You guys are way too careless with that benzene. Some of you guys have it up to your elbows when you're washing your glassware. It's a known carcinogen. Don't come cryin' when you have cancer in 20 years."
My oncologist when relating the risk of colonstomy: "It's 100% risk if it happens to you."
Words found on a card from a recently deceased friend: "Let's get together and let's make it happen sooner rather than later."
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Dear Clive
Dear Clive,
Do you mind if I address you by that nickname? Your real name is such a mouthful, Epithelial Papillary Serous Carcinoma, III. Who uses such titles these days? Jerky fart faces like you, that's who.
You insinuated yourself into my life, crying for attention. Making a big ruckus that was all about you, you, you. I stopped everything just to tend to you and your wishes. I gave up my job for you. I lost a boat load of friends. Nobody wants to be around the guy who always has to have all the attention. I restructured my life to account for your presence. I gave over control of my body. I gave up everything for you.
I tried to break up with you, but you wouldn't leave. You hid in the corner in the dark where you thought I couldn't see you. But I heard you breathing and knew you were there. You stalked me until I was paralyzed, afraid to do anything that might rile you. I gave up my favorite foods because someone told me that you liked it too. I ate nasty things because someone told me you would hate them too. I did everything for you.
Well, I have had enough! I am moving on. I know you got wind of my plan last week because you had a temper tantrum last night. Marianne Williamson was right when she called you a bratty child vying for attention. A bratty child who wants to do everything his own way. A bratty child who ignores others for the satisfaction of his own selfish needs. There must be a way to get through to you and make you stop.
I recognize that you are part of me. You came from me. You are me. By striking you, I am striking myself. A strike might deplete you, but it also depletes me. I am striving to replenish and heal myself. I want to not hate you. (Marianne says I should love you.) The fighting all the time with you is exhausting. I want to be whole. I want peace. We need to do this together. I cannot do this if you act out, even a little. You need to get in line, join the program, make nice with your neighbors. You are not the only one who needs things. You don't have to be defensive and nasty and ....well, you don't have to be a bully. We can do this, but only if you make nice.
Sincerely,
Me
Do you mind if I address you by that nickname? Your real name is such a mouthful, Epithelial Papillary Serous Carcinoma, III. Who uses such titles these days? Jerky fart faces like you, that's who.
You insinuated yourself into my life, crying for attention. Making a big ruckus that was all about you, you, you. I stopped everything just to tend to you and your wishes. I gave up my job for you. I lost a boat load of friends. Nobody wants to be around the guy who always has to have all the attention. I restructured my life to account for your presence. I gave over control of my body. I gave up everything for you.
I tried to break up with you, but you wouldn't leave. You hid in the corner in the dark where you thought I couldn't see you. But I heard you breathing and knew you were there. You stalked me until I was paralyzed, afraid to do anything that might rile you. I gave up my favorite foods because someone told me that you liked it too. I ate nasty things because someone told me you would hate them too. I did everything for you.
Well, I have had enough! I am moving on. I know you got wind of my plan last week because you had a temper tantrum last night. Marianne Williamson was right when she called you a bratty child vying for attention. A bratty child who wants to do everything his own way. A bratty child who ignores others for the satisfaction of his own selfish needs. There must be a way to get through to you and make you stop.
I recognize that you are part of me. You came from me. You are me. By striking you, I am striking myself. A strike might deplete you, but it also depletes me. I am striving to replenish and heal myself. I want to not hate you. (Marianne says I should love you.) The fighting all the time with you is exhausting. I want to be whole. I want peace. We need to do this together. I cannot do this if you act out, even a little. You need to get in line, join the program, make nice with your neighbors. You are not the only one who needs things. You don't have to be defensive and nasty and ....well, you don't have to be a bully. We can do this, but only if you make nice.
Sincerely,
Me
Monday, January 7, 2013
Getting Busy
I got busy living last week.
I got some cute new clothes that fit. Not clothes that fit the body I had before this cancer stuff started. Not clothes that fit my body after chemotherapy and bowel resections wasted my body. Clothes that fit this body that I have now. Not clothes for work. Not clothes for recuperating. Clothes for living now. I didn't really have many clothes that fit. Most were still too big. When I put on those clothes and looked in the mirror, I saw someone in sad baggy clothes. I saw a sick person. Blech.
I chose not to enroll in classes this semester. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy learning, but only for a few weeks and my class has 6 more weeks full of quizzes and tests and essays. Blech.
I changed grocery stores. I went to Safeway and got a Clubcard and started shopping there. I am no longer known to all the checkers as the lady who has cancer. I no longer have to answer the dreaded question, "How ARE you?" , spoken always with a head tilt. Blech.
I joined another gym for the days I don't have rehab. I love the trainers at the health center who lead the Cancer Rehab group. Yes, that's what they call us, the Cancer Rehab group. We have fun and laugh. But when other members ask to join our class, the trainer says, "Oh, that's the Cancer Rehab group." "Oh, well good for you guys." *fist pump* So I am still one of those people who has cancer. Blech.
I just want to not have cancer.
Maybe if I get busy enough I might forget about it.
I got some cute new clothes that fit. Not clothes that fit the body I had before this cancer stuff started. Not clothes that fit my body after chemotherapy and bowel resections wasted my body. Clothes that fit this body that I have now. Not clothes for work. Not clothes for recuperating. Clothes for living now. I didn't really have many clothes that fit. Most were still too big. When I put on those clothes and looked in the mirror, I saw someone in sad baggy clothes. I saw a sick person. Blech.
I chose not to enroll in classes this semester. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy learning, but only for a few weeks and my class has 6 more weeks full of quizzes and tests and essays. Blech.
I changed grocery stores. I went to Safeway and got a Clubcard and started shopping there. I am no longer known to all the checkers as the lady who has cancer. I no longer have to answer the dreaded question, "How ARE you?" , spoken always with a head tilt. Blech.
I joined another gym for the days I don't have rehab. I love the trainers at the health center who lead the Cancer Rehab group. Yes, that's what they call us, the Cancer Rehab group. We have fun and laugh. But when other members ask to join our class, the trainer says, "Oh, that's the Cancer Rehab group." "Oh, well good for you guys." *fist pump* So I am still one of those people who has cancer. Blech.
I just want to not have cancer.
Maybe if I get busy enough I might forget about it.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Obligatory New Year Post
Happy New Year everybody!
I resolve to get busy living.
I confess that I have been hiding out. I have been slouching around the house in slippers and a big ugly sweater. It's too much work to leave the house. I would have to shower and wash my hair. I would have to find my shoes. And it's cold out there. The weather channel says it's 16 degrees. Brr. I'll just stay home.
Enough! So what if my bloodwork keeps coming back worse and worse. Get.out.of.the.house.
Enough! So what if I can feel those telltale symptoms again. Get.out.of.the.house.
Enough! So what ......whatever. Get.out.of.the.house.
Big breath of resolution.
This is happening. I better get out of the house and get busy living, before I can't. This whole thing f*ing sucks, but so what. I resolve to get busy living in spite of these things. I see my shoes peeking out from under the sofa. I have a new bottle of La Source shampoo and a new tub of body butter. Get going!
I resolve to get busy living.
I confess that I have been hiding out. I have been slouching around the house in slippers and a big ugly sweater. It's too much work to leave the house. I would have to shower and wash my hair. I would have to find my shoes. And it's cold out there. The weather channel says it's 16 degrees. Brr. I'll just stay home.
Enough! So what if my bloodwork keeps coming back worse and worse. Get.out.of.the.house.
Enough! So what if I can feel those telltale symptoms again. Get.out.of.the.house.
Enough! So what ......whatever. Get.out.of.the.house.
Big breath of resolution.
This is happening. I better get out of the house and get busy living, before I can't. This whole thing f*ing sucks, but so what. I resolve to get busy living in spite of these things. I see my shoes peeking out from under the sofa. I have a new bottle of La Source shampoo and a new tub of body butter. Get going!
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