WOMEN'S HEALTH
CANCER STORY...Page 5
The dark days that followed were filled with a tormoil of thoughts and questions.
What did I want to do? If my life were to remain as it was, I wasn't sure that I wanted to live.
I could not rest well. I was not interested in anything anymore. There was not much that I could
do. I managed to live between my bed and the reclining chair nearby. The extent of my travels
was the journey to the bathroom, which exhausted me. My meals were bland, and tasteless. The
bread, rice and boiled chicken were my mainstay. I hadn't seen the sunshine for so many days
that I wondered if it still shone outside.
I was angry with my doctors for seeming not to care about me. I had given up on finding any
new stores of strength from within, to endure further chemotherapy. My evening visits from my
new husband consisted of some hand-holding and a brief kiss or two. I wondered if he was
repelled by my body? I hadn't worn any makeup on my face, nor was I wearing a wig on my bald
head. The taste of toothpaste, to brush my teeth sent my into spells of wretching. My personal
hygiene left much be desired at that point. I was fairly isolated from friends, and extended
family members. My sister called daily, but with only a brief reassurance of her support.
Whenever I would bring up the topic of whether or not I would go for my last round of chemo,
I felt what seemed like a silent brickwall of unacceptance.
I could not bring myself to think much further beyond the present day. I just didn't seem to
be recovering very well. At every doctor's examination, I was told that my bloodtests remained
very satisfactory. And despite the fact that I was suppossed to be consuming great
amounts of water to protect my kidneys from the chemotherapy, and hadn't been able to do so,
they were not failing me. The days had turned into almost three weeks, when I could finally
go home with Larry again. But I was too listless to do anything there. The house had been
sold now, and it was time to pack things up. I very slowly started sorting through things
to keep, and things to discard with Larry. But my mind was preoccupied with more relevant
things.
The decision whether or not to have my last treatment still haunted me. I had told my
parents and Larry that I would do it, but I had not convinced myself yet. I wanted to run
and hide somewhere until the day when the cancer would take me. I did not think I could go
back to that treatment room again, even if it were for the last time. It wasn't really a
matter of my own will against anyone elses. I simply lacked the strength to endure any more
suffering, and felt the last treatment would probably kill me, anyway. I felt like my body
was no longer my own. Any familiar feelings, had vanished. Finding some endurance to get
through each day was the only goal I had.
Time waits for no one, and I found myself traveling toward the clinic once again. Telling
myself that going there, did not mean that I had to accept the chemotherapy, I proceeded on.
I will tell them I am done, I said to my tortured mind. I wondered if this was how the Jewish
prisoners felt, marching to the ovens at the concentration camps, as they stood in line before
the ovens that would burn them alive? I imagined I was being strapped into the reclining chair
to recieve my last treatment, as a prisoner on death row is, when it comes time for his leathal
injection. Was I going mad, I wondered.
It took the nurses so many attempts to insert the needle into a vein in my arm, that they said
my body must be fighting their efforts. Searching the veins on my legs and feet they speculated
an attempt at access there. But the last poke of the needle finally found an accepting vein
midway between my wrist and elbow. By this time, the nurses knew that I'd need the wastebasket,
in which to vomit, and the privacy of having the curtains drawn around my chair. Had I gained
a reputation, I wondered? The treatment-room "projectile vomiter." Within minutes, I was
embarassing myself with continuous wretching. I was barely able to catch my breath occasionly.
A kind nurse stopped by to hand me a cool dampened cloth for my face. I managed to choke out
a thank you. Then stuck my face back into the wastebasket.
I wondered if the vomitting was brought on by my mind, or the effects of the chemo? Because
shortly after my treatment ended, I regained my composure. I hardly made it to the appointment
desk and out to the car, helped by my father, when I was once again wretching in the wastebasket
we had taken along from home. My head was spinning, the smells of the highway were
suffocating. The sunlight hurt my eyes. I was hot inside, and cold outside, shivering and
shaking. So sick that I lost my awareness of what was around me, I was helped to my bed once
again. I went in and out of the sickness and pain. Mostly I was in it, being beaten and twisted
by relentless tidal waves of nausea.
I was even more ravaged than before, if that is possible. Much of my memory of the following
weeks is a blur. Emotions, rather than memories. Feelings, instead of formed thoughts. Anyone
near me was more of a annoyance, instead of a comfort. I don't know how I got through the
battle? Or how I was carried by my loved ones, but I was. The fogs were deep, and the agonies
greater than I can describe. I wished that I were in the hospital, for the first time in my life.
And I am not a whimp about pain, after surviving 20 yrs of crippling migraine headaches, and
still bouncing back. I didn't even "think" anymore, I only existed. Everything lost perspective,
and there was only now, and only the pain. I even ceased to pray, and let go of all the things that
once mattered to me.
But there was to be a new dawn. There was a light at the end of the dark tunnel, and it was
just a matter of time. Taking one minute at a time, until I could manage an hour, I went on.
The hours soon turned to days. The days gathered into weeks. I was starting to gain a little
strength,physically. And, the inner me was, letting myself think of the future, but in small
incriments. Much work still lay ahead of me, if I were going to be well again. There was still
business of moving back to my house awaiting me. And a brand new marriage that needed
my attention. And there would be no more chemo, only some time to recover my strength
and then on with the last leg of my treatment, two months of radiation.
A month later, I was back at the clinic for my regular appointment with my doctor.
As I walked past the treatment room, where I had recieved the chemotherapy, I felt a
churning in my stomach and looked quickly away, hurrying on down the hallway to the doctor's
office. I had bloodtests, and an examination. And I recieved the news that the breast cancer
was in remission. My condition was good. I would have a month off to recouperate before
starting the radiation. My doctor wished me well, and told me to enjoy the approaching
holiday season.
Back
Forward
My Interests
Home Page
|
