"If the biopsy gets moved from Monday, someone is getting punched in the face."
"Well I'll be on my guard then."
He thinks I am kidding. I should be kidding.
I don't think I am kidding anymore.
I think it stems from a loss of patience. I had done well with patience; cultivated it, nurtured it, watered it enough to shelter me during the period of relative statis when I was shoving whatever scraps I could squeeze down my gullet without vomiting, melting down into the weakling with knobby knees that would ultimately suffer one blow too many and end up hospitalized. The tumors had come back. War had been waged and although I had home turf advance they had made the first strike: another bowel obstruction. Worse this time. 3 inch purple incision in my midsection worse. Iv nutrition worse.
But I had been improving. I became ravenous for the minor bits of praise tossed my way by the surgery team -- reminders of the normalcy of a linear progression, rewards for improvement, improvement stemming from following the rules. The sort of things that tend to fall far outside the bounds of oncology. I was doing well they said, each progress report marked with a diet upgrade, a reduction in pain meds, increased mobility, and the promise of a release.
But then they struck again, in the form of tiny lesions on my liver that had not been present the week before. Sort of terrifying, really. I did not think they had it in them. Fevers began, as they always do when shit hits the fan; soul-sucking harbingers of a worsening condition.
As I joked with my oncologist, at least with the surgery I should be able to drink enough to fend off dehydration from the fevers!
The little things, we always say. The little things.
I often feel like a log adrift at sea. Bobbing to and fro, knocked around by the occasional wave, consigned to suffer in the purgatory of watching everyone else powering their own course. I have but the strength to keep head above water: just buoyant enough to keep afloat. I worry for the day I become saturated enough to sink.
"Well I'll be on my guard then."
He thinks I am kidding. I should be kidding.
I don't think I am kidding anymore.
I think it stems from a loss of patience. I had done well with patience; cultivated it, nurtured it, watered it enough to shelter me during the period of relative statis when I was shoving whatever scraps I could squeeze down my gullet without vomiting, melting down into the weakling with knobby knees that would ultimately suffer one blow too many and end up hospitalized. The tumors had come back. War had been waged and although I had home turf advance they had made the first strike: another bowel obstruction. Worse this time. 3 inch purple incision in my midsection worse. Iv nutrition worse.
But I had been improving. I became ravenous for the minor bits of praise tossed my way by the surgery team -- reminders of the normalcy of a linear progression, rewards for improvement, improvement stemming from following the rules. The sort of things that tend to fall far outside the bounds of oncology. I was doing well they said, each progress report marked with a diet upgrade, a reduction in pain meds, increased mobility, and the promise of a release.
But then they struck again, in the form of tiny lesions on my liver that had not been present the week before. Sort of terrifying, really. I did not think they had it in them. Fevers began, as they always do when shit hits the fan; soul-sucking harbingers of a worsening condition.
As I joked with my oncologist, at least with the surgery I should be able to drink enough to fend off dehydration from the fevers!
The little things, we always say. The little things.
I often feel like a log adrift at sea. Bobbing to and fro, knocked around by the occasional wave, consigned to suffer in the purgatory of watching everyone else powering their own course. I have but the strength to keep head above water: just buoyant enough to keep afloat. I worry for the day I become saturated enough to sink.
