Entry #3 - Of a Long Journal

Let's take of of the above at a time. The baggage I refer to is as varied as what I might have in my pocket on any given day--right down to the lint particles. The past,present, and future no longer remain in their nice orderly categories, but instead, whirl around blending and popping out in the most surprising and distruptive moments. Quite unnerving to say the least. I will not go into specifics here, although I realize it will weaken my argument if I don't. The things in this category belong to me, my old therapist, and perhaps a few examples to my most intimate friends. Otherwise, forget it.

Now the second area, vulnerability, I have no qualms discussing ad nausea. Why, because rarely does a day pass when something doesn't prick my sense of well being and put me in my place, whether physically or emotionally. Some are great and some are small. The biggies are stand-up stories to tell about survival simply because I miraculously did just that, survived. I have plenty of NH moments like this, but also some city ones. Like the time I was walking from one of the midtown Citi Corp literacy sites and suddenly heard a muffled cry behind me. I stopped and turned, and saw a well dressed man with a briefcase in the process of being attacked by three males--a mugging. I stepped toward them to scream and make a commotion when I heard a
rasping female voice next to me. I turned to face the voice and was face-to-face with a thin small woman who held a very big knife up. She smiled and quietly said,
"You don't really want to get involved, do you?" Without hesitation I said, "No way," and walked quickly on without looking back. As soon as I reached the nearest building and lit doorway, I slipped in and had the concierge call 911.

Then of course, are the little events that act like earthquakes with their far reaching effects: like when I was consulting in different school districts. I had the habit of arriving earlier than my appointed time and going into a diner or deli nearby to "research" the area since in New York City, every couple of blocks becomes a "town" unto itself with its own ethnicity and culture. I had made a pack with myself to take every opportunity to learn, and so, on this particular day in Brooklyn I went into a diner, sat at a counter, and ordered a coffee. The next thing I knew, a man and a woman in dark clothes sitting next to me got up in an apparent huff, looked at me with accusing eyes, and spoke to the counterman about something using a word that sounded like "shiksta." I remember the sound of this word because it clearly had something to do with me since, when saying it, the man stared right at me with such distain, I actually cringed. To this day I do not know how to spell this word or the exact definition, but I have learned it is Hebrew and it means I'm some sort of dispicable female outsider who is not welcome in that particular orthodox community. I remember feeling as though I wanted to defend myself, explain myself, or simply just get the last word in, anything but sit there and pretend I didn't care. Instead, at the time I just shrugged, noticed how everyone in the place was looking at me, noted for the first time their fairly uniform appearance, demeanor, and garb, and knew I would not forget this incident. I haven't. I believe this is how prejudice insinuates itself into out lives. It did mine.

So how in heck does these ramblings connect to chemotherapy? Maybe they do, and in some ways, maybe they don't. But chemotherapy is like living on the edge and it definitely is quite insidious. It is a treatment of choice, a pretty straight forward one for most kinds of cancer, very common place, and everyone seems to know someone who has gone through it. What isn't so apparent is that chemotheraphy is not one thing--it encompasses any number of types, combinations, and dosages of toxic poisons whose sole purpose is to kill any and all fast growing cells inside your body, good as well as bad cells. Your hair may or may not fall out depending upon dosage, but also the type/s of chemo. you are given. The more toxins and strength of the toxins, the more likely your hair will completely fall out within a week after your first treatment. There are all sorts of possible side effects. Your skin may develop little blisters, dry scales, or general run-of-the-mill teenage-type acne. You may or may not become nauseous. You may or may not lose weight or actually gain weight. You may bloat, or you may shrink. You might have one or more of these combinations: nausea and vomiting, excessive and pervasive tiredness, and bone and joint pain. Side effects really are insideous creatures unto themselves. They are not predictable nor are they enjoyable. They may be treatable with other prescribed medications, but then, those medications have their own set of side effects, too. A vicious circle I chose to avoid.

And so I learned to cope as best I could since I had the real toxic, evil combination of poisons that took all day to intraveniously be administered. Each of my senses had a role to play in this---but the role my each of my sense took was dictated by the toxins, not me. So the first thing I learned was I exerted little control over my body now. The best thing I could do, perhaps the only thing, was to keep moving. Actually, in reality, we as humans are never really in control of anything and just think we are for our own peace of mind. So consciously I needed to accept my vulnerbility, the day to day, sometimes hour to hour changes in my body--the cramps in my joints that felt like broken bones scraping together in the hips, the knees, the ankles, and god help me, every single toe. I have a really high tolerance for pain, but this was way out of my league of endurance. I can only liken it to what my left index finger felt like for a month after a wood chipper devoured the end of it up to the first joint and I had to have it reconstructed. So pain became my reality. After each chemo session, the length of the pain increased from a few days, to, in the end, a week and a half. And feeling weak---of that one is hard, too. The toxins and the pain combine to weaken body and spirit. You can do a lot to keep the spirit up, at least I found that possible by just forging ahead with my life; but keeping the body up was not possible and hence, in reality, I was more physically vulnerable.

Chemo. also endangers your red and white platelet count. On going CBC tests are required to see if you are able to take the next treatment. And naturally you have to avoid catching colds, the flu, or any infection whatsoever. The hand sanitizing companies must love chemo. patients. Not only must you use it on a regular basis as an urban dweller, but you become obsessed with trying to create an invisible barrier between you and all the germs that inhabit every single space that you may touch or where you may breathe. I considered taking out stock in these sanitizing companies, but I believe TIAA-CREF already does so I'm covered. I wonder about things I normally had not wondered about, like, can your body die and resurrect itself? This is not a Jesus question, but a night of the living dead type of question, I believe.

I'll continue on in the next entry on current notions.