Calm and at the Ready

Well, I went in for my chemotherapy appointment on Tuesday only to discover that due to some hiccups with test results and pending insurance approval, that it had to be moved to Friday. At first, I was irritated, especially since I'd already shaved my head for the occasion. I wanted to get this moving. I want to beat this monster. As my impatience cools, I have had a couple of extra days to think on all of this. Being bald really isn't so bad. It's not that I don't miss my hair. I definitely do. This extra wait has just confirmed to me how ready I am. I am almost surprised at my level of calm in all this. Is it because I've had cancer before and I know what to expect? Is it because I've watched my brother die, my daughter be born and through those things, I've simply learned to ride the waves, as it were? I'm not deluding myself. I know this isn't going to be easy. They're going to poison me for a few months and then take my breasts. Sure, I'll be getting new ones, and my hair will grow back...but it's still a pretty big deal. Cancer is always a big deal. I guess I'm just that ready. There are and have been many chaotic points in my life, but in this, I seem to be finding my place of zen. As my body is being ravaged by the illness and the cure, I feel at peace with it. I have been assured by my oncologist that tomorrow we will proceed. Is it odd that I almost look forward to it?

I suppose that there are a lot of people who would ask the “why me?” questions. I think when I was twenty and doing this, I did. Today, my response is “Why not me?” Why not George? Why not anyone? It's not a nice thing. It's a painful and difficult thing, but it is what it is and it happens to people. I am no more or no less deserving than anyone. It happens. I'm okay with that.

Well, the hour is late. I think I'll finish my decaf latte, tend to my teething baby, and call it a night. The battle begins early tomorrow, and I am ready.

"Did my time among the strong.

Some are here and some are gone.

Did my time among the cursed,

praying that my brain would burst."

~Glenn Danzig

The night before chemo...

I am surprised at the amount of calm I feel at the moment. I didn't expect to be terrified or anything, but not this serene, either. I had my friend Bri shave my head so I wouldn't have to pull it out of the shower later. I didn't cry and I don't feel bad about being bald. I guess I really am ready for this. Let's go...

On the Other Side of Reality...

I went in for my MRI, today. It was a surreal experience. The wait was long, as was the procedure. I got to wear comfy scrubs and lie on a gurney with an IV needle in my right arm while the room was being prepared. It was nice, really...I got to chat with an older nurse about her breast cancer experience. I shared a little about my previous cancer treatment, so we had a lot to talk about.

I remember the CT scans I had, fifteen years ago, and I thought this would be the same. Not quite. The machine was smaller, more closed in. Because it was a bilateral breast MRI, I had to lay on my stomach. Getting on the table was a bit tricky, especially since the IV was making my arm sore and a little stiff. The techs offered to redo it, but it wasn't that bad, so I kept it as it was. Facing down, looking into a little window, I was able to see the wall ahead of me. Very clever of them to place mirrors to allow for this. I was facing down, but looking ahead. I saw the machine surround me as I was moved through it.

Suddenly, I felt as if I was out in space, being prepared to be transported somewhere in some sort of futuristic capsule. On the wall ahead, there was a picture of a tropical beach that appeared to be from a calendar. I couldn't tell whether it was a photograph or painting, but as I watched it, it went from one to the other, reminding me of how being in a beautiful place can sometimes look like standing inside a painting...art and reality intermingling...the surreality of beauty.

The machine was loud, even with earplugs and headphones. At times, I would close my eyes, listening to its changing rhythm, wondering if this is where industrial music came from. When the combination of noise and closed eyes became too much, I would open them and watch the picture for a while, then go back to the darkness of my eyelids, letting my mind travel. I thought about a lot of things. I thought about where this was taking me. I thought about George, wondering what this had been like for him, wondering if he was paying attention from his place on the other side. I thought about what Tuesday means...my first round of chemotherapy to come. I wondered if I will be strong enough to have my head shaved preemptively, so I won't have to pull my hair out in the shower, like I did last time.

The MRI itself took about a half hour. When I was pulled from the machine, I groggily sat up, had my IV removed, and made my way to the dressing room where my own clothes waited. The car ride home was as surreal as the experience I had just come from. As I watched the sun on the leaves of passing trees, my favorite Rasputina song played in the stereo. It's achingly beautiful with a soul-filling sadness. “Do you believe in the signs of the zodiac? Haven't you heard that the systems for planning always fail....” And it dawned on me. My body had remained on earth, but in a way, the machine had still transported me to another place. Here I am, in that world between worlds. Not dead, and not dying, but not fully in the world of the living. I walked this dream-scape before, the last time I had cancer. I did not expect to begin the journey in an MRI machine, but that's what happened. Now, as I take this trip, I know to watch the scenery. I know to glean all I can from it. School has ended for the quarter. Last time I was in this place, it was in the winter. This time, I'm taking a summer trip, and I know that the world will be a different place when I return.

Mastering the "Art of Existence"

This evening, it hit me like stage-fright. Yes...that's exactly what it feels like at times, stage-fright. As of today, I am still waiting for a full prognosis. All I've received so far is the knowledge that it's stage 2 breast cancer on the left, and they want to take my breast...nipple and all.

It's a different kind of fear, that rarely makes its presence known. After all, I've had cancer before. I have an idea of what to expect. The weeks that have passed since the initial diagnosis have gone by almost like normal, except I've been beading more necklaces, and taking longer play and snuggle sessions with my daughter, all while bracing myself for the major life-event that will inevitably change me again...but for the better.

It was as I was putting dishes away this evening, when I felt that odd sort of heavy dread hit my stomach, and it felt JUST like it does before I have to do something in front of a crowd. I pictured myself barely able to stand, sort of wanting to cry or throw up, as I often do before I have to recite basic information at a business meeting, tell a story in a classroom, act on a stage, or sing “Blaze of Glory” in a dimly-lit bar with a bunch of drunk people staring at me (the latter was an attempt to cure this dreaded condition). This stage is different. I've been on it before. The view is not of strange faces or judging classmates. It's more like being able to see the whole scope of my life and mortality. It's an incredible thing to look at, really, but it leaves me feeling so exposed. It's like the universe is watching me, and it's my job to pass with flying colors, but only after a lot of pain and humiliation.

So here I stand, much like I did on the auditorium stage in seventh grade, nervously reciting a poem as the popular girls made fun of my shiny forehead (the event that lead to makeup), only I've brought with me something I didn't have before. Hunger. Hunger is stronger than fear. I may be shaking, but instead of wanting to hide, I want to get through it. I want to look this beast in the eye, know exactly what its plans are, and I want to cut off its head. I'm almost bloodthirsty with this desire to do battle and there's even a little thrill in the fear. I have my moments of terror, but terror doesn't own me and neither does cancer. I have a baby and husband who need me. I have an education to complete and a future to start. There was nothing I could do to avoid this down-time to come, but there is nothing it can do to keep me from planning, from striving, from continuing.

I'm scared, I'm shaking, I'm determined...I'm hungry.

Bring it.

This song has been playing a lot in my head, lately. Chuck's words have always spoken to me, but it is especially so, now.

"Same place, different time, same chase

A different line

A chance to heal, to allow what's real

To take its course

Like a brush in hand, to paint a picture

Of what we would like to see

And love to be

The vision is clear, taking charge of fear

For granted I do not take the future

To be changed by triumph

Tears and pain of the past

I gain wisdom

The fragile art of existence

Is kept alive by sheer persistence

The fragile art of existence

No time for self-pity

No time for dwelling on what should have been

But is yet to be

Take the plunge, take the chance

Safe in the heart and soul from elements

Spawned by those void of no self-worth

And no sense of dreams"

~C. Schuldiner