I felt that momentary weightlessness that lets you know your air bound. I giggled, held on to my husband, and with a look, demanded he look at the airplane window as well to witness the earth going small, miniaturizing, people becoming ants. An hour later, I watched tiny ships make their way around a tiny Lady Liberty. From the air, New York was a dense landscape of buildings.
We were visiting my aunt and uncle at their new home in Long Island. It was, as usual, a beautiful and cozy creature, with tasteful furniture and a touch of Ukrainian accoutrements. To a lazy body, it was hard to leave the comfort of fireplaces and good cheese in favor of walking around freezing city streets.
On Saturday we saw my cousins new play, Hyena. It was genuinely fascinating, hard to pin down in words...and the talk of the house since. I was very proud of her and her accomplishment. Vicariously, I remembered the feeling of being young and wanting to eat the world, make it yours, to create.
It was a welcome respite to being home.
I haven't written in a bit, I have thought of it but...I have a second scan coming up on the 5th. It will determine what options will be available to me moving forward. A drug is being taken out of my cocktail, and next steps are complicated. One option can knock another out, all carry risks, there is little clarity from where I stand. This fact brings out the anxiety, the fear, the instability of a woman trying to remain positive as she is torn from the ground by a whirlwind. I have days of long calm, punctuated by an engulfing terror. It makes it hard to write witty bits.
I asked the doctor about the people I have heard- who live 10 or 15 years treating cancer as a chronic condition. It was a mistake, as he seems to wince. To the medical establishment, the hourglass is marked in mere months. I can't condense a lifetime into such a small place. So I negotiate with the universe - give me remission...give me 10 years...give me 5...give me one.
My husband does not read my blog- which is best. I think my honesty would be difficult for him. But it's hard to hear, I know. I showed my sadness to my mom, and I saw it just made things worst. I talk to my brother, he is stronger- but I am sure it is no easier. It's hard to convey these thoughts without feeling your swallowing the world. So you say nothing and slowly, you isolate yourself without realizing it.
Waiting the scan, you become hyperaware of little aches and pains. You become sensitive and cry at commercials. At work I make dark jokes about them having to find a replacement soon and that my co-workers terrible files structures are what gave me cancer. Maybe I make too many jokes, but they are my way of dealing with the streams of thoughts that haunt me. My jokes aren't jokes, I wonder often of the disrepair that I would leave behind if something happened.
Sweet moments are interrupted by terrible thoughts. Happiness is damped by the stray "What will happen to my stuff? Will my family have to sift through it all? I hope I have nothing embarrassing laying around...I wish I had finished this thing, that thing." These thoughts float by casually, non-chalantly, and are often irrelevant. They seep out of that tiny dark hole in my heart that just cannot be blotted out by all the positive thoughts in the world.
I still have hopes to reach what the doctors term NED (No evidence of disease). It's not remission exactly, because liver metastasis has like an 80% recurrence rate....but it gives me hope that I could spend a few years living normally...and maybe, beating those odds.
Despite this hope, my brain twists pretzels out of the future. I don't want to give the impression I have given up, I haven't, but I do think about all the possible outcomes. I think, it tries to reconcile itself with death as a way of gaining the upper hand. It wants to feel as if, no matter the outcome, I don't let it win. What bigger monster is there than the darkness? If I can stare him in the face, say "I'm not scared of you- you can't hurt me" then I can stop worrying about when or if he will come.
Sometimes being strong is facing those fears inside you. It's scary, scary as shit, but it has to be done.
So everyday I tell it "I am not scared, you can't hurt me" and everytime I stutter, close my eyes, tremble, doubt, but I think I am getting better at it...I am getting better at it.
--------------------------------------------------------
I keep listening to this song. I know Mike hates that I listen to it, but in some weird way, it gives me peace.
We were visiting my aunt and uncle at their new home in Long Island. It was, as usual, a beautiful and cozy creature, with tasteful furniture and a touch of Ukrainian accoutrements. To a lazy body, it was hard to leave the comfort of fireplaces and good cheese in favor of walking around freezing city streets.
On Saturday we saw my cousins new play, Hyena. It was genuinely fascinating, hard to pin down in words...and the talk of the house since. I was very proud of her and her accomplishment. Vicariously, I remembered the feeling of being young and wanting to eat the world, make it yours, to create.
It was a welcome respite to being home.
I haven't written in a bit, I have thought of it but...I have a second scan coming up on the 5th. It will determine what options will be available to me moving forward. A drug is being taken out of my cocktail, and next steps are complicated. One option can knock another out, all carry risks, there is little clarity from where I stand. This fact brings out the anxiety, the fear, the instability of a woman trying to remain positive as she is torn from the ground by a whirlwind. I have days of long calm, punctuated by an engulfing terror. It makes it hard to write witty bits.
I asked the doctor about the people I have heard- who live 10 or 15 years treating cancer as a chronic condition. It was a mistake, as he seems to wince. To the medical establishment, the hourglass is marked in mere months. I can't condense a lifetime into such a small place. So I negotiate with the universe - give me remission...give me 10 years...give me 5...give me one.
My husband does not read my blog- which is best. I think my honesty would be difficult for him. But it's hard to hear, I know. I showed my sadness to my mom, and I saw it just made things worst. I talk to my brother, he is stronger- but I am sure it is no easier. It's hard to convey these thoughts without feeling your swallowing the world. So you say nothing and slowly, you isolate yourself without realizing it.
Waiting the scan, you become hyperaware of little aches and pains. You become sensitive and cry at commercials. At work I make dark jokes about them having to find a replacement soon and that my co-workers terrible files structures are what gave me cancer. Maybe I make too many jokes, but they are my way of dealing with the streams of thoughts that haunt me. My jokes aren't jokes, I wonder often of the disrepair that I would leave behind if something happened.
Sweet moments are interrupted by terrible thoughts. Happiness is damped by the stray "What will happen to my stuff? Will my family have to sift through it all? I hope I have nothing embarrassing laying around...I wish I had finished this thing, that thing." These thoughts float by casually, non-chalantly, and are often irrelevant. They seep out of that tiny dark hole in my heart that just cannot be blotted out by all the positive thoughts in the world.
I still have hopes to reach what the doctors term NED (No evidence of disease). It's not remission exactly, because liver metastasis has like an 80% recurrence rate....but it gives me hope that I could spend a few years living normally...and maybe, beating those odds.
Despite this hope, my brain twists pretzels out of the future. I don't want to give the impression I have given up, I haven't, but I do think about all the possible outcomes. I think, it tries to reconcile itself with death as a way of gaining the upper hand. It wants to feel as if, no matter the outcome, I don't let it win. What bigger monster is there than the darkness? If I can stare him in the face, say "I'm not scared of you- you can't hurt me" then I can stop worrying about when or if he will come.
Sometimes being strong is facing those fears inside you. It's scary, scary as shit, but it has to be done.
So everyday I tell it "I am not scared, you can't hurt me" and everytime I stutter, close my eyes, tremble, doubt, but I think I am getting better at it...I am getting better at it.
--------------------------------------------------------
I keep listening to this song. I know Mike hates that I listen to it, but in some weird way, it gives me peace.
