THE END OF CHEMO

Sometimes when I’m awake at night I turn terrible thoughts over in my brain.  I imagine perfectly awful scenarios.  I have a dark streak, this is for sure, a black, thick vein that runs in me and it is nothing for me to wonder …if I had to choose between pulling The Hub or The Kid out of a fire, who would I choose? Or could I watch my mother drown in a tsunami to save my own hide? Or would I throw my body in front of a friend the split second before a deranged postal worker unloads his firearm at us?  I know.  It sounds awful. It IS awful but I do it. I think about these things. And other things too horrible to type.  I can get myself right upset doing it.  I can think thoughts that make me weep when I put myself in absolutely horrid situations and play out what happens. 

I think I’ve watched Sophie’s Choice too many times.

I’ve done this terrible thinking most of my life.  I’ve learned to never chase off the thoughts.  I used to try to ignore them, forget about them, bury them deep in my brain with other thoughts I try not to dwell on like the memory of my first sexual encounter and how big my jeans look when I hold them out in front of me, but the dreadful thoughts only got bigger.  More intense.  Worse.  So I let them come. I contemplate circumstances no person should ever find themselves in. I imagine the unimaginable; think through the unthinkable, and in doing so, I find some relief. 

But in all my thinking, in all my role playing and dark final acts, I never really knew how I would feel.  I never truly knew what it would be like to choose myself over someone I love.  I never knew what emotions would actually rush through me if I had to walk away from someone who was in pain, being tortured, dying.  I never knew what it was like to leave someone behind.

My last chemo treatment was, in many ways, a perfectly perfect event.  It went smoothly.  All my nurses were there. In groups and individually they came to me.  We talked.  We laughed.  I cursed their needle sticks and saline and they took it – as they always do.  We took pictures.  We celebrated. It was my last chemo.  I was done.  After that treatment, I was walking out.  Moving on. Walking away. 

But there are so many who aren’t.

I have friends in that chemo room.  I have made connections that are difficult to explain.  There is a lady who always sits in the 3rd chair from the end – I don’t know her name – but we smile at each other.  And once, when I was hurting, she looked at me, knitted where her brows should be together and shook her head gently and I knew she was trying to make it better but she knew she couldn’t.  I love that woman.  I don’t know her name.  And there is an elderly lady who comes alone to treatment.  She’s not doing well.  She’s been getting worse.  No one has told me she’s getting worse – no one has to.  You can see it.  She’s the wrong color – she’s so frail and when the nurses access her port, she gasps.  And there is Bob.  I don’t know if I can talk about Bob just yet.  Bob gave away his military medals to his adult children this past Christmas.  Bob wasn’t there this past Wednesday.  I took his seat – first chair on the right.  These people are my friends, my family.

And I’m leaving them behind.   

And each one of them would tell you how happy they are for me.  And each one of them has celebrated when they’ve heard how well my treatment is working.  And each one of them is dying. 

My heart is raw over this.  Every time I try to talk about it, the words hitch and stick in my throat and my eyes burn with tears.  I feel a sort of survivors’ guilt.  Like the only person who walked away from a plane crash or a POW camp.  But somehow worse. Like I walked away while the plane was still burning.  Like I was set free while my friends’ were still being fed hard black bread and thin soup in between being beaten and tortured.  And I can hardly stand it.  It is impossible for me to explain the feelings that ball up inside me.  I can’t unravel them myself.  And I just wanted you to know.  Because when you see me, at least for a while, and you ask me how I’m doing and you want me to be excited, elated, and overjoyed at being finished … I just want you to know – there are so many who aren’t and who won’t be until they leave this world.

And this is the wonder of cancer.  It opens your eyes and your heart in ways you never expected.  It tortures you in a manner so different than what you thought you’d feel.  It brings glory and damnation within inches of your face, makes you cry while dancing and laugh openly at evil.  It mixes up triumph and defeat so much that you can’t tell the difference between the two.  It brings saints into your life and then asks you to leave them behind.  It is a harsh teacher.  A harsh teacher.

For this, for so many things, I will forever love and hate it equally.

Comments

[katrocket]

I was consumed by similar feelings of guilt for a long time, but now I've come to embrace it as a kind of empathy or acknowledgement. Even though the emotion is just as maddening, I think the word "guilt" suggests that you did something wrong. You haven't done anything wrong.

A good friend of mine, a sweet and inspirational man I met in chemo who never made it home, told me: "Live well for the rest of us..." His words gave me the motivation I needed to get on with it. We owe it to all those who can't.

*hugs* and well done.

[steve]

(Earmuffs Momme'...)
I thought you ENJOYED our first sexual encounter!

I've struggled with this aspect of your cancer from the first time we walked into that chemo room. With the saints who are struggling/dealing with their cancer the best way they know how; to their loved ones/caretakers who are dealing with it as well, along with the inevitability of what lies ahead, and beyond that.

I'm still not sure if there's a unified front of cancer warriors, or does it remain a singular, individual battle? I could only fight your war and offer them encouragement. Actually, I couldn't even bring myself to do that. It didn't feel right. It didn't feel like it was enough.

I guess Live well for the rest of (them) is the best I can do right now.

I'm happy for us. I'm ecstatic for you. I think of them every day.