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Cold Comfort
Last night, I ate the entire pint of Haagen Daz Vanilla with Chocolate Chips, consciously deciding to kick the guilt about saturated fat to the curb and to knowingly eat to my feelings. I awoke at 4:00 AM nauseous and miserable. I thought I got what I deserved for sabotaging months of righteous nutrition. Maybe it was just middle-aged digestion. Or was it because, yesterday morning, the doctor called to say that the lymph node biopsy was positive? Fashion Statement
I cried as my partner Anne shaved my head. Most of my hair was already gone but I dreaded having the universal symbol of a life-threatening disease. I cried the next day as I tried on synthetic wigs. They looked silly, like a child's stuffed animal splayed out on my head. Instead, I bought colorful hats, scarves and bandannas and joined a cancer support group. I cried with the women in the group because they appreciated my new look. I smiled cautiously six months later as new sprouts appeared on my head.
No Comfort Here
I thought I'd be able to stop reading about aggressive large b-cell non Hodgkin's lymphoma after my last chemo. My download file is stuffed with research papers. I ordered another bookcase for the hard copy. My hair is growing back and I'm eating again, except for citrus. I sleep through the night without chemo chills and fever. I'm beginning to enjoy life again. Then, unexpectedly, my oncologist called. "I need to see you this week." So I'm back at the computer, struggling to maintain my composure. It's almost dawn. I'll wait for a reasonable hour. Then I'll get ready for my appointment. Or Here
Oncologists specialize in creating small inaccuracies about the experience of cancer treatment. The legal mandate for full disclosure requires, "There might be some slight side effects" from the poison I'll be pouring in your veins. "You might experience a little discomfort" from being baked with radiation for the next twenty days of your uncertain life. "Of course, you're going to beat this" although the statistical odds are less than 50% that you will live long enough to collect your first social security check. Like a child learning to trust the grownups, lie number one and lie number two set me up for lie number three. The Village
Nine women with cancer gather for a retreat in a beautiful house in the woods by the river. All is calm. Some of us are in treatment, some in remission. Some of us can laugh again, some still cry. We are strangers but we are sisters under the knife, under the radiation machine, in the chemo lounge. For this short time, we are cared for by three support group organizers who have an amazing capacity to embrace what is still whole and healthy inside of us. I return home, struggling to believe that each of us, in her own way, will live forever. Returning to Life
My last radiation treatment was four weeks ago. The rash is gone and the infected sores on my neck are healing. Everyone says, "Thank goodness that's over! Now you can get back to normal!" Three days ago, my right shoulder throbbed uncomfortably, just once. Two days ago, it ached every so often. Yesterday, the ache turned to pain. Today, I keep standing in front of a mirror so I can stare at my shoulder. I'm trying not to think, "Is the cancer growing back already?" Worrying about cancer is my new normal. Maybe Not
I had my post-treatment meeting with my oncologist yesterday. I went by myself. The appointment had originally been set for Anne's convenience so she could be there with me, good news or bad. A week before the appointment, after twelve years, we broke up, unable to adjust to how lymphoma has distorted our lives. My blood work is normal, but the MRI results cast doubt about whether I'm headed for relapse or cure. I talk with friends and family about my fear of the uncertainty of cancer and about how bereft I feel without Anne by my side. There is more than one way to die from cancer. A Quiet Evening at Home
Two friends join me to watch a TV show about a man with metastasized brain cancer. He reluctantly agrees to another round of chemo. His docs know there are no more remissions; they hope only to prolong his life another few months. As the story unfolds, I cannot control myself. I mutter half-sentences and move nervously in my seat. Eventually, the man decides to stop treatment so he can spend his remaining time at home with his family rather than shaking and shivering and puking his guts out in the infusion room. I am this man. Sorrow
If Anne called tomorrow and said that she's been thinking about me, that she's been struggling to understand what's happened to me and, even though she still doesn't get it all yet, I would start breathing again for the first time in months. I would ask, "When can I see you?" When she walked in the door, I would fall into her arms and cry all the tears that are now stuck behind my artificial look of composure, until the crack in the middle of my heart started to heal. Many Months later: A Personal Ad
GJF looking for a GJF who understands that being a sometimes caretaker is not synonymous with having an Al-Anon slip. Into everyone's life a little rain falls, and it's oh so nice to have someone around who's willing to help carry the umbrella. If you are 50-something and already know that real love-relationships have nothing to do with perfection but a lot to do with the gritty side of life, let's talk. Who knows what will happen? No drinking, smoking, cats. Must love Haagen Daz Vanilla with Chocolate Chips.
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