The Gift

It's been quite a year.  I have much to be grateful for. And, to be honest, I have much that I'm not so grateful for.

At the beginning of this journey, I was suffused with gratitude for all the lessons I was learning, all the outpouring of love from friends and family, near and far.  I was acutely aware of the absolutely precious and fragile gift of life. And I was grateful for every morning, every breath of air on my face as I walked the dog, every moment of sensory proof that I was still incorporated here on this planet.

That was eight months ago.  I am still fully aware of all of those things.  And, at the same time, my physical and emotional well being has been worn down as I've walked inexorably through the dead marshes, weighted by my various tasks.  I have been cut and poisoned and radiated.  I have had more sleepless nights in the last eight months than the rest of my life combined.  I know fatigue better than my own family. (I have been joking, when I can joke recently, that a career in technical theatre is a great training ground for having cancer: you get so great at feeling like shit, you have a dozen different ways to push through it.)

Radiation, as I've said, is kicking me to the curb.  I am weary in my soul.  My body hurts.  I am beset by issues at my work that are causing me a huge amount of undue pressure and stress.  I want desperately to "chuck the works" (as Louis L'Amour used to say), and just... I dunno.  Leave.  Check out.  Go to a cabin in the woods (with wifi) and watch The Wire on my phone for hours on end.  Do crossword puzzles.  Write until there are no words.  Sleep until I'm actually rested.  Cry until the tears are exhausted.  Scream until I laugh.

But I can't do that.  I had hoped I'd have that moment, at some point after I'm out of the foxhole and the shelling has ceased.  I had hoped I'd have a breathing space that would allow me to really wrap my head around what has just happened.  But that apparently is not going to happen, unless I decide to leave the financial security of my job and just see how supportive the universe is of living my creative dreams.  Which could be an incredibly great scenario on many levels, and could be an incredibly stupid and stressful scenario on many other levels.

I'd love to write a blog that has the joy and deep gratitude that I was feeling in the spring.  But it's fall, and the days are short, and darkness is upon us.  Winter is coming, as they say.  For some of us, winter is here.

I had an interesting conversation with a social worker at my radiologist's office yesterday.  She is filling out some forms for me and we were talking about this whole cancer thing.  She seemed to have a deep understanding of what the journey has been like, and I said it sounded like she knew personally whereof she was speaking.  She said no, but that she got it.  And that the only difference between her and us is that she can still live in denial.

No.  Not the place in Egypt.

Denial is what is stripped away during this process.  That soft comforting blanket that I wrap around myself that says that the ticking time clock of my days will tick away forever.  Or, if not forever, for so long that by the time it starts petering out I will be so sick and tired of the business of life that I will be (in many ways) grateful for the final respite. Denial tells me that I will be ready.  Denial says that my relationships will have been neatly tied up, like a final episode of Downton Abbey. Denial says that all my words will have been written.  All my great ideas will have been executed, or at least played with until they've lost their shiny allure.  Denial says that I will no longer love my people so achingly, or that they won't love me, or that it won't be so hard.

Denial says that I can take my days and fritter them away because I have a million of them in front of me.  I can work too hard, or not work hard enough.  I can put off the things I want to do, because I have time to do the things I need to do first.  That I can take care of my precious mortal body last.  That I can make choices, or not make choices, and it will all be fine because I live in some kind of world in which I will be able to choose things differently later.

Denial forgets that I will only see so many more summers.  Denial tells me that I will always have a next time in Paris.  Denial tells me that, if all else fails, I will be able to wander the world as an unincorporated spirit and be able to hang out with all the friends who are far, and see all the things I've missed (without jet lag!) for eternity.  (I really am banking on this last one, just for the record.)

Having cancer gave me the gift of removing that denial.  It's a brutally difficult gift to accept.  It puts me out into the cold, without a buffer, without a comfortable place to hide.

The loss of denial is the ultimate reality check.  Once it's gone, it changes all things.  My relationships can no longer afford to harbor petty grudges and grievances.  I can no longer ignore questions about when I will start living a life that is full and creative and joyful.  Consciousness has been awakened.  Whether I go off and spend some desperately needed recuperation time holed up in a cabin with nothing but silence and wifi, or whether I quit my job and grab my creative reins with a fiery jihadist passion.. the consciousness puts it all in high relief.  These are my choices.  This is how I'm spending the finite minutes of my finite existence.

Is this a gift I'm thankful for?  I can't say I'm not.  It makes loud the quiet desperation of my days.  It thrusts me into an awakened state.  The insomnia is not just physical.  It is a spiritual insomnia as well. 

The removal of denial highlights one thing most of all, and that is my relationship to the people in my life. The ties that bind us together, the gluten that weaves our souls together with tight, tenacious bonds... that really is what matters at the end of the day. 

I will never be able to drift off into the night and not feel the pain of saying goodbye.  I will never be able to solve the Hobson's choice of either outliving my loved ones or leaving my loved ones behind.  Our days have to matter.  The interactions have to be compassionate.  The ties must be acknowledged.  It's a vale of tears, truly.  And that is real, and that is unavoidable, and that is the price of admission to this wondrous, incredible circus we have all been invited to join.

Happy thanksgiving, beloved fellow travelers.  May we all be kind to each other this, and every, season.

My bounce back

Isn't.

I am definitely in a slog here.  Something happened after chemo was done when, I think, everyone collectively was ready for me to be done, most especially me.

But I wasn't. 

And life decided to keep moving on.

And work kept working.

And daily stresses kept stressing.

And remodeling kept... well, actually, it didn't... which was a problem.

And, you know... business as usual.

But it wasn't.

So then I had surgery and that was... well, not a big huge surgery, just regular surgery.  Which, by this time, ain't no big thang, just something we do a few times a year.

But... you know: surgery.

So then I'm trying to get over surgery and, somehow, I just wasn't able to.  I was getting better, but not as fast as before.  And I was tired.  And my various cut up muscles hurt.  And I started getting depressed because life was still business as usual, and it felt like no one remembered that I was going through shit. 

Mainly, really, because I didn't remember any more.

Or I didn't want to.

And I realized the other day why I wasn't writing so many blogs.  It's a really depressing reason. 

It's because this is all getting to be normal.

Something, recuperation, something, recuperation, something, recuperation. What's so interesting about that? 

Life, death, life, death, life, death.  After awhile, you get kind of used to being in a foxhole, fighting the incoming.  You get kind of used to being poisoned, or cut, or nuked, or recovering from same.  Not much to write about. 

Being afraid is the new normal.

Being tired is the new normal.

Being abnormal is the new normal.

I started radiation last week.  It's fucking weird.  And neat, at the same time.  But mostly weird and creepy. They position me (lining up the four tattoos now on my body with the laser beams coming out of the ceiling and walls of the treatment room), and then this huge machine moves around and points itself at me, and then splats out this looooong moment of radioactivity, right at my body. 

It doesn't hurt, exactly.  It's like getting a really long xray at the dentist, like 15 seconds long, about five different times and angles.  Which doesn't seem all that long just saying it like that, except while it's going on I just can't help having images of Nevada desert test sites and weird extra-terrestrial tractor beams and deformed Hiroshima babies and burnt, crackling skin falling off of corpses.  You can think up a lot of stuff like that during 15 seconds of radiation.  I always hop off the table thinking I'm glowing a little, and... you know... not in a good way.

My bounce back isn't bouncing back.

Radiation is tiring.  Like, really fucking tiring.  Don't ask me why.  And, like the eskimos and their 25 words for snow (or something like that), I now have a wide variety of words and descriptions for fatigue.  If chemo fatigue resides in the bones, aching you from the inside, dragging your femur and your spine and your pelvis down to the middle of the earth... then radiation fatigue is like the color bleeding out of film.  It's like Marty McFly seeing pieces of himself disappear from the photograph in Back to the Future, just... fading away. 

Radiation fatigue is like being erased.  The colors are muted, moving to grayscale, and eventually to a sickly white haze.  Nothing is sharp.  Everything is depressing and dirty, like smog, coating everything with a dull, dumb apathy.  The will to live gets weaker.  Not in an absolute sense, but in a ground down attitudinal sense.  Nothing seems worth doing anything for.  Going somewhere involves parking the car: not worth the hassle.  Eating something involves deciding what exactly to eat: what's the point?  Even sleeping seems somewhat stupid, in that it won't really do much good except for the first five minutes after waking when I can sort of pretend that I'll spring up and not feel like gray Star Trek antimatter has infiltrated the spaces between the cells of my body.

That moment in the late summer, when the air has been thick and the moment between day and night is not so much twilight as just a silent resignation that another day has gone and won't ever come back again. The cars drive home and seem depressed, their drivers destined for another night of falling asleep in front of the tube, or fighting with their wives, or wishing they had a wife to fight with. 

Futility. That's what radiation fatigue feels like.  The futility of life.  The what the fuckness of it all.