waxing nonsensical

I've been in hiding. A rabbit who digs a hole only to emerge among foxes. I have emails in the hundreds I've read and considered answering, texts sitting hopelessly, all demanding explanation. 
'Where are you?'
'What are you doing?'
I feel trapped by a need to explain and the explanation itself. Yet, instead of addressing basic human interaction, I resume focus on churning out words that require constant replacement and hoping someone will simply approach me without having to ask.

I've been muted. In a most cruel, Pavlovian way my throat's sharp rejection of utterance forces an opt for silence over commentary. Restraint over laughter. Although the torturous swallowing has come and gone with each cycle, I remain conditioned. Instead of projecting, I whisper. I don't know if this will subside. The recommended baking soda cure-all only provides temporary relief. I'd rather not chance it.

I'm bald and just nearing the point of washing my wig to make myself presentable to the public. or I could just stay hidden.

I'm in my own little bubble concentrated around my room and the hours most mortals take rest. I'm nocturnal now. 

Finals have provided a new impetus for hibernation and a reason to disregard hygiene. My android-like attachment (Central venous catheter), with its ever-pressing neediness and demands to be covered with skin ripping plastic every shower made cleansing seem much less necessary. Why change pillowcases I'm only going to cough into again the next night?

My room is a collection of dust bunnies. The ones that hop from one surface to the next, fearing Lysol. Apparently ceiling fans are meant to interrupt their stranglehold on my living space - I discovered this magic a bit late into my allergy attack. 

I'm not sure if this is melodramatic enough. 

Observation

His eyes look slow, sluggish, and unfocused. A glimpse would capture his visage dewy; upon closer reflection it is a sheen of perspiration from sedentary activity. His blazer appears to conform to his rounded shoulders like a shrunken cardigan. 

He will grow into his blazer, and his bad haircut. 

A protuberance escapes the vertical lines of an intentional shirt choice.

His complexion would have once suggested lively engagement in the outdoors, now merely reddish from losing a race up the stairs to a Domino’s box. 

His teeth remain as perfectly white as memory would allow against a once tender, now merely swollen, chapped mouth. 

Drink Up, Drink Down

I just threw up.

I’m sitting on a train to my first dose of my allegedly last round of chemo. I’ve been swimming in alcohol all week in preparation for the upcoming eight weeks of sobriety, which will include the notoriously blackout-able events of Fling and Hey Day. It's been done before by better men - I just hope I have some funny bones left to play.

The feelings of nausea and fatigue tinged with just the slightest drop of hopelessness associated with chemo tended to make me question the logic behind the hangover-inducing round at the bar. I made a note to myself – why on earth would I subject myself to this willingly? This is miserable. And stupid.

You start to appreciate clear-headedness when you are forced to drug yourself up with fog.

And yet here I find myself, mouth dry and throat irritated by my body’s literal rejection of my stupidity and feeble attempt to act like any other kid. The breaks in between chemo have been particularly notable for the opportunities to behave recklessly, yet they are supposed to be the times when I reflect on the beauty of being without inescapable discomfort, yet when given the opportunity to bathe myself in the toxic tastes of an (allegedly) happy hour, I jump at the chance to put myself through hell.

Absence may have made the heart grow fonder, but the anticipation greatly outweighed the activity (that’s what she said…)

Port

'How old are you?' 


she demanded, advancing like a cheetah on an antelope. 
I guess my submissive body positioning, makeupless face,  and tears at a standard procedure failed to project the maturity I thought I possessed, few years post-adolescent.

"21" 
I revealed, embarrassed by the combination of my fetal position and her tone of voice. I would have liked nothing more than to suggest an age for which it would be appropriate to burst into tears with needles and have my parents accompany me on hospital stays.

She, of the warrior-survivor sort, resumed with her interrogative tactics, interspersed with bits of "I've had worse" and "only idiots like you don't have ports".

She took my age as a desperate sign that I needed to be saved (as I should know better) and less than subtly conveyed this in her sales pitch. I would soon "come to terms with it" and "realize how much better off I'd be".

I wanted nothing more than for her to shut up and let me wallow in my melodrama over a bad vein.

She described her experience with cancer and ports confidently, with the strength I had so often feigned when discussing my own situation with those I felt would not be able to handle it otherwise. She discussed the port with the condescending tone reminiscent of the girls in elementary school who were the first to get burberry purses for christmas. I was slightly offended.

My mother's vapid alarm at 'yet another scar' did not help my case.

She further shared that she had a tattoo over her scar, to further the differentiation between us. She, wise and courageous, exhibited comfort with all things sharp and frightening. How special.

But, as I mentally defended, its not the needles that cause the hysterics so much anymore. No, with weekly sticks, pricks, and jabs I've have plenty of opportunities to display my ease and calm. My deteriorating veins, however, are another story. The tattoo'd woman above commented on how 'small' they are. Once upon they were referred to as "juicy"(I'm sure that was meant as a compliment..?). I'm not sure how I feel knowing that the pathways for my lifeblood have expirations. Or that I'm slowly damaging the infrastructure of my circulatory system with every injection. every hit or miss attempt to wrestle a vein into submission with a catheter. But please, put the disdain on drip and let it settle in like the rest of this poison. I'm used to it.

Had I been in a less fragile state, I might have lashed out at her. As many do when revisiting a situation in their minds, I reconstructed the flow of conversation with a few choice quotes.

Namely, I would combat the ever-present one-up-ing that tends to come up in the cancer conversations. For one reason or another, people feel compelled to relay how much worse off they are, as if to suggest I lost a contest for not being terminal and should just fucking get over it. You have hodgkins? I have non hodgkins. You had two bone marrow biopsies? I had 12.

I would probably also call her out, perhaps incorrectly, for casting herself as this tough, devil-may-care cancer survivor with a tattoo over the scar of a procedure I don't want to (and shouldn't have to) get. Or maybe suggesting that, although she's no longer the one in the hospital bed, she could try to show just the slightest amount of sensitivity to  someone whose shoes she professes to have been in not so long ago. I imagine she felt very pleased with herself, as she said she "would want someone to tell her" - the sort of phrase one uses when telling your exboyfriend's new girlfriend he's a cheater. I feel it to be far less appropriate in this situation. Though that could be applied to her preaching and patronizing in general.

it reminds me of the stereotypical pledge-fraternity relationship. You don't like getting lit on fire? Ya, well, I went through it so you should feel privileged for the opportunity.

Though, unlike a typical semester, there's no hell week (with reward of initiation) in sight.

A Final (De)grade

The University of Pennsylvania has failed me.

Not in the academic sense, but in the other academic sense.

I'll clarify: I desire to take the maximum recommended courses as determined by my oncologist, and Penn does not wish to accommodate me. My case was petitioned and shut down, and with it my opportunity to (somewhat) comfortably continue my education. Instead, they have unyieldingly offered me the options of 

-  a full course load (to which my oncologist has explicitly objected ) 

- a part time course load with full tuition AND automatic academic probation (a nice, permanent addition to the academic record)

- surrendering my status and privileges as a CAS student and becoming LPS

- leaving.

The decision to continue to take courses is not a foolhardy one, nor one without some basis of understanding of the limitations of my...predicament. Doctors seem to agree that the practice of being "normal", however one chooses to define it, is essential for maintaining the positive psyche necessary to successfully complete treatment. The University of Pennsylvania has decided that it knows better than my oncologist regarding my health. The mindset: Why don't I just leave them alone to deal with healthier, happier students? Or, more forgivingly, we can assume their actions intended to alleviate. Benevolent intention or not, they have just made me all the more stressed, which according to medical professionals will weaken me, my resolve, and ultimately, my chances at recovery. So thank you, University of Pennsylvania, for placing yet another obstacle in my path to relative normalcy, already cluttered with things like hair loss, overwhelming fatigue, potential infertility, oh and the massive tumor in my chest. Who doesn't appreciate a good kick when they're down?

The combative(read: ornery) nature of this post does not go unnoticed. I would like to blame it on the 30 years I've aged in the past few months. The sort of lethargy attributed to years of simply existing.Though the wrinkles haven't developed (yet), there is a sort of grey that has taken over my eyes in place of the usual glint. I am worn down and embittered. Gravity(multiple references here) has hit physically and mentally.

I understand higher education is a service industry. This is not lost on me. The fact that I have to pay full tuition for part time (and be put on probation) as part of a policy to discourage students from "coasting", when in fact part time is the maximum allowable given that I will have chemotherapy cocktails (aka vicious cell-destroying poisons) circulating my body, accurately depicts this notion. Not to mention, going to class will prove difficult when I am confined to a hospital bed for 3 weeks at the end of term. This is not to suggest I do not find myself capable of completing a part-time course load successfully. This is also not to suggest I seek special treatment beyond the recommendation of my Harvard Medical School-trained oncologist.  I intend to contribute to my classes to the best of my abilities, and I hope to be held to such a standard. I simply ask to be accommodated where accommodation is needed. It's not about sympathy, it's about fairness.

Another frustrating aspect is the guise of assistance they paint upon themselves. Support! Advising! Come to us for this session on x,y,z, we'll help you do x,y,z. File a report! Tell your RA!  The means through which problems are supposed to be solved. Yet, in circumstances these means would most useful (I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest cancer is an extenuating circumstance), they instead choose to adhere to policies and rules that do not acknowledge extraordinary circumstances. They are as black and white as the text in which they are written. To give credit, they do allow one to leave and come back. Or drift off into the world of LPS. But I should not have to choose between going at the full speed I was once able to maintain and stopping entirely. I also should not have to switch into a school of general studies, inconveniencing and potentially endangering to my ability to graduate with my desired major in a reasonable period, in order to accommodate. I should not be penalized (read: put on probation) for desperately trying to continue my education amidst limitations outside of my control.

The policy is unfair and does not support the kind of student it seeks to protect. It fails to consider the needs of the ambitious and determined; the kind of student that demands the challenge Penn is supposed to provide. The kind of student Penn recruits and spits out into the world to make something (exceptional) of him/herself. The kind of student that does not simply "give up" when presented with adversity. This is the stuff of college admissions essays - you should know better. 

So I ask you, University of Pennsylvania, to allow me to do all that I am capable of. Hold me to the standard of excellence assumed when you accepted me (I'm going to assume there was one - go with it).

Here's the plan:

Regardless of what happens over the next few months of surgery, treatment, and hospitalization, I'm going to graduate from the College of Arts and Sciences. Maybe even by my projected graduation date! (I know I'm reaching here.) I would make some sort of statement asserting "you can't stop me," but I feel that would be excessive, and too easily considered a dare. 

I understand that cancer makes the assertion of future goals presumptuous. But I refuse to allow this affliction to define me. I wish you would do the same.

PSYCH001

"Well I looked my demons in the eyes,
laid bare my chest, said 'Do your best, destroy me.
You see, I've been to hell and back so many times,
I must admit you kind of bore me.'" Ray LaMontagne

We're on to biopsy round 3. Pre-surgical testing this week, getting chopped up next week. 

More scar tissue to dance around my purposely deflated(and then re-inflated) lungs, 

more tissue for pathologists to play with under microscopes and various stains. 

Make a pretty picture, please. And a prettier diagnosis. Then Chemo(again!) then a bone 

marrow transplant(I may be donating to myself if all goes well). A series of 3 day hospital stays 

culminating in a 3 week. The remnants of athlete within scream at the thought. Somehow amidst 

this I will act as a student and (student) leader, and maybe a social creature as well. (No promises 

on the last one though.) I don't know why I'm still in this lazy, anti-social mindset. I don't know 

why I don't seek the company of others as avidly as I did in the past. I don't know why my room 

has become as much of a source of comfort as it has a black hole of productive activity. 

The wrong weather can easily deter me from ever leaving my house. No commitment, 

no matter how important or enjoyable, can motivate my movement. 

In these few weeks leading up to my next round, I'm allowed to drink. 

I don't want to drink. 

How cruel. A 21st birthday to be spent spurning bars and their frequenters. 

In what nightmare did this scenario emerge?

The worst of it is, it's starting to bother me less and less. Though not accepting 

this new version of myself hasn't compelled me to be anymore active than it 

has made me anxious, I can't help but think retaining that POV(i.e. the one 

that condemns my fatigue for laziness) is essential in retaining some aspect 

of the former "me". 

An identity crisis, how post-adolescent of me. Right on schedule.

Back to School

Syllabus day. Books are cracked open for the first(and potentially last) time by students eager at the thought of their own gratification. The intellectual curiosity is at its peak in the first few days of roll call and administrative set up. Questions seem easy and open-ended, lacking the "wrong answer" that frightens away participation by even the most audacious of students. The motivated souls sit with pens raised at paper; fingers hoovering over keys. The distraction techniques of later courses have yet to spill onto the screens of the relatively well-slept individuals. 
There is an anticipation that can only be derived from a lack of awareness of what is to come -the impending, the inevitable. Fresher faced and more fancy free than these students have found themselves in recent weeks, they await the instruction with (almost) baited breath at the thought of successful completion. Yet to submit to the stresses of balancing activities, prioritizing actions and commitments, they remain hopeful that their capacity to try will see them through. And it does, often enough - though not necessarily with the all goals and promises made still intact. But who among us can honestly say they have remained untouched, remained poised above the masses with the omnipotence of the most crazed curve-killer? 

Set phasers to stun, it's another semester.

New York

I've been here in better times. I can recall walks and skips and jumps on each unique strip of cracked pavement. When alone, I would be joined by a book. With friends, I would be joined by a drink. I remember sips and bites of the cheap and expensive, with steamy side dishes of gossip and gaiety. It was about exploring the places we'd heard of once or whoever had the cheapest cocktails. We pranced around these streets like nothing could touch us. And nothing did. 

 

And then the days grew shorter as slowly as the last 15 minutes of a work day. Time turned itself over to new arrangements of commitments, based on new priorities. Life was reset to a default found only in novels praised for their ability to "get to the heart of the matter". The dramas, the tear-jerkers, the stories that attempt to speak to the strength of the individual. Adversity is encapsulated in a well known character, character trait, or external force we all know and fear. Human succeeds with the weaknesses of his humanity, we dwell on the miracle, and cheer for the brief fleeting moment we think such things are possible in real life.

I'm sitting in a car, traveling past as an observer. I do not sip or skip on these streets. My stomach is a child on a trampoline after too much cake. Sure, the cake was delicious and the traces of icing around his mouth make him look adorable and carefree. But the bouncing. Oh, the bouncing. Stumbling forward after a bad bounce, he catches himself near the edge. He waits, unsettled by the nearness.

I have this sense of foreboding that makes me want jump up and run as far away as possible. I feel tainted by merely sitting in this waiting room. This room is too full. There are too many people here too much older than me, too exhausted to make small talk with those around them. Let's do roll call. Why are you here? I ate a bad steak. My apples glow in the dark. A rogue vaccine. I'm rich. I'm poor. I'm coughing. I can't. Its growing. Its not. What to do, what to do.