Entry #2 of A Long Journal
My sense of hearing in the city. It is accosted 24-7,and as the saying goes, the city that never sleeps, nor did I at first. I have learned how to screen out the fire engines and most emergency vehicles other than ambulances, which have this piercing whoop that doesn't seem to fade within any reasonable distance. The subway rail screeching also has had a similar effect on me. I admit, however, that although my hearing has probably been permanently altered by the loudness of what I endure on a daily basis, I do enjoy hearing the multicultural array of languages that surround me. Each is like a unique form of music that I cannot understand at all, but can't help but appreciate.
Of course, with chemo., as it spreads and takes over my body, my sense of hearing has acquired some very disconcerting phenomena: the echoing effect, and the buzzing cloud. The echoing effect comes and goes at will. I will be listening wholeheartedly to a friend speaking, and all of a sudden his or her voice seems to come from within a deep cavern. The more I strain to hear the words, the more they echo. And then there is the buzzing cloud that usually appears during and directly following chemo treatments. It's like a cloud of static surrounding my inner ears. The more I try to shake it away, or swallow to let the pressure release, the more stubborn it gets. Thank goodness neither of these irritables last for long. And the further I get from my last treatment, the rarer these phenomena become.
Now I come to my sense of sight. This is my very favorite sense. My deepest horror is to lose this sense. In the city, it's constantly in a state of being refined. Like an owl, I am able to look up, down, and almost 360 degrees around me. It's called survival instinct. And my sense of touch--well that is pretty much numbed out between all the walking on pavement and the amount of hand sanitizer I go through in a week just coming and going from work. My sense of sight and my sense of touch are both affected by chemo. My sight fades sometimes around the edges. Got it checked right away. Turns out it's the drugs, nothing permanent. Scarey. Happened once crossing the street. I took a deep breath and huddled as close as I could to another person beside me as we crossed hoping someone could see. And touch, well, with all the needle holes in me from blood tests, blood counts, and the intravenous treatments that were successfully administered after a few blown veins, well, I think this speaks for itself. I can't stand to be touched right now. It hurts. And the chemo. has not made me nauseous, but it has made my bones hurt relentlessly. It feels like someone broke them and is rubbing the broken ends together. This type of pain has increased as the treatments have gone on. If I don't move anyway and bear the pain, I am afraid I'll never move again. So touch---out of the question except for an occassional hug which is much appreciated.I try to embrace the pain, since I have no choice. It is a reality.
Now we come to the sixth sense, which I will not debate as to whether or not it exists. I assume we all really know it does. This sense becomes a must for any city dweller. It serves as a major survival technique and gives you the edge no matter where you go in the city. Some people call it "trusting your gut," but I call it, a built-in skill of intuition that can be relied upon even in the diciest of situations. Trust it and you live; ignore it, and you're in constant trouble or dead.
The edge, this I believe is what makes urban living a must for anyone at some point in their life. When I came, I thought I was a mature human being quite capable of adjusting and revising my beliefs and strategies for living whenever necessary. Eh, right! I had only scratched the surface of what was to become an advenure in discovering what my limitations, biases, beliefs, capabilities, and understanding of who I am, are and might be. Everything is tested her, not in a gradual, one-at-at-time common sense way, but in a bombardment quite similar to what happens to the general five senses and which results in the refinement of the sixth. Perhaps the most jarring changes and learning have come in two areas for me: discovering I came with baggage that could no longer be ignored; and discovering I was vulnerable much more than I ever thought was possible (no thick skin had I--rugby player or not).
In my next entry, I will explore these further and tie them in as to how these learnings really have helped me cope with the chemo. adventure.
Of course, with chemo., as it spreads and takes over my body, my sense of hearing has acquired some very disconcerting phenomena: the echoing effect, and the buzzing cloud. The echoing effect comes and goes at will. I will be listening wholeheartedly to a friend speaking, and all of a sudden his or her voice seems to come from within a deep cavern. The more I strain to hear the words, the more they echo. And then there is the buzzing cloud that usually appears during and directly following chemo treatments. It's like a cloud of static surrounding my inner ears. The more I try to shake it away, or swallow to let the pressure release, the more stubborn it gets. Thank goodness neither of these irritables last for long. And the further I get from my last treatment, the rarer these phenomena become.
Now I come to my sense of sight. This is my very favorite sense. My deepest horror is to lose this sense. In the city, it's constantly in a state of being refined. Like an owl, I am able to look up, down, and almost 360 degrees around me. It's called survival instinct. And my sense of touch--well that is pretty much numbed out between all the walking on pavement and the amount of hand sanitizer I go through in a week just coming and going from work. My sense of sight and my sense of touch are both affected by chemo. My sight fades sometimes around the edges. Got it checked right away. Turns out it's the drugs, nothing permanent. Scarey. Happened once crossing the street. I took a deep breath and huddled as close as I could to another person beside me as we crossed hoping someone could see. And touch, well, with all the needle holes in me from blood tests, blood counts, and the intravenous treatments that were successfully administered after a few blown veins, well, I think this speaks for itself. I can't stand to be touched right now. It hurts. And the chemo. has not made me nauseous, but it has made my bones hurt relentlessly. It feels like someone broke them and is rubbing the broken ends together. This type of pain has increased as the treatments have gone on. If I don't move anyway and bear the pain, I am afraid I'll never move again. So touch---out of the question except for an occassional hug which is much appreciated.I try to embrace the pain, since I have no choice. It is a reality.
Now we come to the sixth sense, which I will not debate as to whether or not it exists. I assume we all really know it does. This sense becomes a must for any city dweller. It serves as a major survival technique and gives you the edge no matter where you go in the city. Some people call it "trusting your gut," but I call it, a built-in skill of intuition that can be relied upon even in the diciest of situations. Trust it and you live; ignore it, and you're in constant trouble or dead.
The edge, this I believe is what makes urban living a must for anyone at some point in their life. When I came, I thought I was a mature human being quite capable of adjusting and revising my beliefs and strategies for living whenever necessary. Eh, right! I had only scratched the surface of what was to become an advenure in discovering what my limitations, biases, beliefs, capabilities, and understanding of who I am, are and might be. Everything is tested her, not in a gradual, one-at-at-time common sense way, but in a bombardment quite similar to what happens to the general five senses and which results in the refinement of the sixth. Perhaps the most jarring changes and learning have come in two areas for me: discovering I came with baggage that could no longer be ignored; and discovering I was vulnerable much more than I ever thought was possible (no thick skin had I--rugby player or not).
In my next entry, I will explore these further and tie them in as to how these learnings really have helped me cope with the chemo. adventure.
posted by AYankee @ 2:01 PM
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