The Dead Marshes

In J.R.R. Tolkien's The Two Towers, Frodo and Sam have to slog through the dead marshes on their long trek to Mordor to destroy the ring of power.  Thanks to Wikipedia, I don't have to actually crack open a book to find a very good description of what both the dead marshes (and, spoiler alert: chemotherapy) are like:

...dreary and wearisome. Cold, clammy winter still held sway in this forsaken country. The only green was the scum of livid weed on the dark greasy milky surfaces of the sullen waters. Dead grasses and rotting reeds loomed up in the mists like ragged shadows of long forgotten summers.

I think I am on the tail end of the first round of chemo.  The treatment was on Wednesday, and it's now Sunday.  Thursday I felt OK.  Friday I felt good... until I didn't.  Yesterday was a full blown dead marshes day, and now... this afternoon... I'm starting to feel the breeze on my face again.

It is weird to be undergoing treatment that produces side effects that you usually take treatment for. This is a hard core battle we're fighting  There is collateral damage that is deemed acceptable because the stakes are so high. You have a headache, you throw up a bit, you lose your hair, you sacrifice parts of your body... that's OK in this game.  This is not a treatment geared to make you feel better.  This is a treatment geared to keep you alive, at just about any cost.

I don't want to say it's the worst thing ever, because (very unfortunately) it's probably not.  The lousy feeling of having these chemicals permeate and pass through my body feels mainly like a very bad flu, compounded by the worst fatigue imaginable.  My body ached and stabbed and sighed.  My stomach was... nervous.  Not so upset that it couldn't hold itself together any more, but... very nervous.  Food was utterly unappealing and even though it wasn't an urgent notion, I did find myself thinking on several occasions that vomiting would not actually be so horrible after all. 

The fatigue.  Unbelievable.  I'm a stage manager and a technical director: crushing fatigue and I go back for decades.  This was on a whole new order of magnitude.  Sitting up for more than fifteen minutes was difficult.  Standing up for more than fifteen seconds pretty much impossible.  My brain would still be working on the assumption that it was my old body in control, and then I would find myself shuddering and shaking inside, trying to just continue to sit up.  Old rules no longer applied yesterday.

At one point yesterday I forced myself to sit outside and be in the air.  It was utterly pleasant... the water in the fountain making a cheerful sound, the plants freshly watered, a sense of peace because there was no way I was capable of any type of productive work.  And again, today, I was sprawled out on the bed.  Roger was reading a Beatles book, the ceiling fan was going, my body temperature and position were comfortable (for once)... and I thought... this would be sooo pleasant, if only I weren't so dog tired and sick.

I believe I had it fairly easy, all in all.  This is the first go round.  My mouth hurt but it settled down.  My hair is starting to detach, gradually, which is breaking my heart.  But all in all, it was just a couple of days -- this time -- that I had to survive.  I just had to get through one or two really bad days.  Today was better.  Tomorrow, I trust, will be better still.

The dead marshes.  The ragged shadows of long forgotten summers.  Whispers of better times, echoes of life.  Traipsing through these few days, I felt the call of the dead.  And even though I'm very far from there yet, I could understand a final moment when the body just sighs and gives in, too tired to fight any more.