I am awake but my eyes are still closed, sunlight angling to invade my throbbing head. My stomach is churning like the Mediterranean in a mistral. The bottle of Zofran is on the table, six feet away, but that's five feet too far. Anticipating the wave of seasickness that will wash over me the second I stand up, I choose to lie still where maybe I'll drown in my misery. I feel sick and tired and, irrationally, utterly defeated that I had to start taking the anti-nausea medication after this last round of chemo. Now I can't even reach the drugs. Humiliating.
I recall a conversation I had with a sailor friend shortly after my diagnosis. His call came during one of the endless waiting room waits in the office of some specialist or another.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Pissed off," I hissed into the phone.
"That's understandable," he empathized. "The problem is, you don't know who to be pissed off at!"
Yes, I do. Everybody.
I'm pissed off at the doctors who say I might need radiation after the chemo is finished and pissed off at the nurses who keep sticking me with IVs and making my veins hurt. I'm pissed off at the people who said they'd be here for me and aren't and even more pissed off at the people who are here for me because they're the easiest people to be pissed off at, what with them hovering around all the time, always asking me how I'm feeling. Why do they keep doing that? It's so annoying.
I am pissed off at myself because I have girlfriends flying in from all over the country this weekend for a Sex and the City movie party, something I've been looking forward to for months, but I am in a piss-poor mood that I can't shake. I feel blue. A misunderstanding with some guy leaves me in tears. I want to let it out, cry, wallow in self-pity. I know this temper, it's PMS, but then I remember that I'm not getting that these days. Which reminds me, I'm pissed off that I'm probably going through early menopause and don't have any kids, or a husband. Also, I'm pissed off about my lost yachting job, my trashed financial plan, and my evaporated travels. If I think about it a little longer, I'm sure I'll come up with a few more things about which to be pissed off. Surely there have been other miscellaneous injustices, scarcely noticed in the onslaught of the past five months.
Getting up on alternate Tuesday mornings is torture. This past Tuesday was #6 of 8 chemo treatments. Other people like to cheer that statistic ("Another one down! Only two to go!") but not me. It's getting harder instead of easier. The alarm goes off and I pull the pillow over my head, the little girl who doesn't want to go school. Mommy, I don't want to go! Please don't make me go-o-o! I wail to myself. It's too ha-ard! The words of a book I read as a child run through my head: "I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day..." I don't remember what the kid in the book was whining about, but he's got nothing on me.
Chemo this week lasted all day. I thought I'd get right in to start treatment since Dr. R was on vacation, but instead, I had to wait two and a half hours to see his partner. As usual, the effervescent Dr. Genius was quick to assure me that my cancer is CURABLE! that as soon as we were done talking we were gonna go in there and get me CURED! but then he let slip that he thought 8 rounds of chemo wasn't going to be enough. This is like being told, as you're approaching the finish line of your 10K, that the race has been changed to a half marathon. Don't forget that I hate running. Fuck cancer and all its stupid races.
Two cups of tea later, I can sit up and type. I try to psych myself up to shower and get dressed to go out, but I feel immobilized. I hate how I look in the mirror and I hate that my eyelashes are falling out and I hate that I don't have the energy to fight every hateful minute. I eye myself warily, wondering what offhand remark later today or tomorrow will trip the suppressed rage.
I troll through pages of saved (still unanswered) e-mails to remind myself of all the support I have.
"How can you be going through so much and showing so little? No anger or resentment?" writes my best friend from college. "I cry sometimes when I think about everything. Please tell me you have moments of weakness too."
Does this answer the question?
"Marge, you are one the bravest women I know," writes another friend. I don't know about that. I am strong. Resilient. I can't get comfortable with brave. I am pissed off that I have to be any of them.
###
6 comments:
This is the kind of moment you should never be forced to have let alone seize, so Carpe Diem must unfortunatley get pushed aside. I imagine this is a moment too painful to be soothed by a pithy slogan, a heavy sarcasm letter, or the side of the tissue box. (The Nordstrom outlet could have potential when you are able to lift your head...) Just please know how much I love you--and know that I'm here for ALL your moments, from total exhaustion to horrified shock to bitter rage. Eventually the moment will pass--our fake husbands will just have to wait!
I am right there with you, sister. It's ok to be mad and pissed off and whatever else you are feeling. I wrote a post awhile back.....I am not brave, just strong. You have to be. What other choice is there? If you want some one to yell at, ask Cynthia for my number and you can yell at me. Try compazine over the zofran. And add an ambien tonight, too. Thinking of you. Cancer sucks.
poses as a rant
but
is paced
with counterpoint
and a buried vein of poison humor
strong
read it twice [Ed.]
I know how much you hate running. (That's why we were track secretaries, right? Well, that and Rob Irvine.) [small attempt to make you smile] This does suck. No way around it. I will bring all my strength with me next weekend. Love you, MM.
"How are you feeling?"
Nobody truly wanted to know how I was feeling. Probably they hoped I was feeling all right, but certainly no one else could be truly interested in the depth to that answer could be discussed during treatment. "Miserable. How much do you want to know?"
Hungover is a good start, maybe hungover, motion sick, and having stayed up one or two nights in a row. And then eaten some suspect meal in the meantime.
So be pissed off. What are you saving it for, otherwise? A slow line at the grocery store or a long wait on the phone for customer service?
Depending on how you are counting I went from 4 to 6 or 8 to 12 midstream also. Really annoying when you just think you are coming into the homestretch and instead you aren't halfway.
For me I just had to let the world get reeealllly small, and kind of quiet (thank God), and just focus on not feeling too physically bad as much as I could. And meanwhile endure all sorts of well-meaning (I hope) people telling me how someone they know wasn't all that tired out by their chemo ("it wasn't that bad"), and reading about some crazed woman who used her chemo time to learn to oil paint, and that chemo nausuea and chemo brain are just like being pregnant. Yeah, sure, whatever you say. You try having your veins hurt from the inside and large bones throb thanks to a tiny little (painful) $7000 shot (ask them to warm it up between their fingers for 20-30 seconds, it stings less) and build negative associations with everything in sight. For months. And months. Unassauged by colored ribbons and perky cheerleaders who tell patients of "journeys" like it's a trip to the mall.
I could offer the happy and supportive thoughts, and tell you where the brighter spots are, but maybe it's not the time for it.
(Okay, maybe other than to say, doesn't matter how you count, you'll get through it.)
I only meant to post a note about a book (the rest of this just came out, unplanned, apologies for foisting anything on you) you might appreciate if you haven't seen it already (and if you are not put off by the author ultimately not winning the battle( a few years after the book was published)). But if you bring a sense of humor to the party, it is a cartoon book titled "Cancer Made Me a Shallower Person" by Miriam Engleberg.
Thank God. I thought this part would never work its way out. How could you NOT be pissed? Shit, I get pissed when someone cuts in front of me on the highway.
You know what's good for being pissed? (You know what I'm going to say, don't you?) Little yoga. . . Maybe a little yoga therapy. Could we PLEASE do it soon?
TC
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