it’s kinda cool
Hi. I’ve been traversing the line between not-well and getting-well and it’s a big, bumpy space without many signposts or helpful markers. The most noticeable things are: relief, profound neediness, fear at having to start being normal before I’m ready, loneliness, wondering if I’m living the right life, naps, attempts at loving myself, attempts at at least accepting myself, hot flashes, wondering about my reproductive potential, being really tired, needing someone to help me clean my messy apartment, wishing someone could write this story I’ve been working on forever and should be working on now, feeling guilty about not calling/writing people back, Gilmore Girls, Friends, buying cheap cute clothes for my upcoming trip, working some, eating L’s food, dreaming in 4-D, reading magazines and the Call of the Mall.
Everything just feels fast. Thursday was my first usual chemo day that wasn’t a chemo day. Yay. And today is Saturday. My first non-chemo-drenched-every-other Saturday since December. It’s nice. I don’t miss it, in case you were wondering. I like not feeling pumped full of chemicals and hovering over a trashcan for days. I like not getting my finger pricked (on chemo days they can’t take blood from your arm – the first nurse told me that if you have blood drawn and chemo given within 24 hours of each other, you’ll “lose your arm. Really lose it.” Whatever that means. But it’s a scary enough image that the finger-pricking seemed tolerable. But it wasn’t. It sucked, particularly because the degree of pain varied so wildly from time to time, depending on nurse, mood, day.)
And I like not having bone pain from the Neulasta (Neulasta, it works fasta, on your canca, sings T). Aching burning in my hips, wrists, shoulders, legs. I’m glad that’s over. Not to mention the every-other-Friday at-home injections of the stuff. I made T do it because well, subcutaneous, subcschmaneous, that’s a lot of needle to jab yourself with. I tried, hard to do it the last time (T said it might be empowering or something), but ended up passing it back to him.
I like not being in the hospital – even a hospital that’s more like an airport. I like that my tastebuds are returning to vaguely normal. I like not having a perpetual taste of something thick and syrupy at the back of my tongue all the time. I like being able to swallow like I used to. I like knowing my hair will have a chance to come back now. Though I wouldn’t mind making some arrangement to keep my legs and pits this smooth forever.
I’m still tired, though. My fingertips are still numb. My period is still MIA. My knees are wobbly and I get nauseated often. Not enough to hurl usually. But enough. My memory is foggy – a common side effect, I’ve read – “chemo brain.” And my face is rashy. And I can’t go in the sun. And I have I mentioned the hot flashes?
But still. It’s okay. I’m going to Florida to the detoxy-wheatgrassy place on the 20th. Then back to work on the 28th. Yikes. A sign of impending health, though. As is extending the umbilical cord and crutch-like dependency I’ve developed on T. He has to start tending to his slightly neglected life now. And I have to let him. Without crying. And throwing embarrassing displays of neediness. As Anne Lamott has said, “Anything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.”
I hope you’re all staying warm. I’m going to try and squeeze some writing out of me now. And go get the Sunday paper and maybe watch some SNL, though the girl-on-girl Weekend Update really just makes me yearn for Jimmy. Fallon.
Lovepeacelove.
