Cancer Meditations II
Into the Wilderness
You can only live at the speed life lets you.
I am an astronaut in space now. I wave hello to Earth. The signal is static. The messages are garbled. I’m too tired for it all to make sense.
I’ve always had the ability to see anyone or anything with rose-colored glasses. But as my energy fades, so does my filter. Clarity sharpens at the edges.
We are all going to die. The only difference with cancer is that I have more certainty of when or how. The aperture narrows depending on which doctor. Oncologists focus on a five-year horizon, the ER on a day. No one knows the future, but at least I will make it through tomorrow.
They made a cast of me for my radiation treatments. I feel like it’s a past version of myself giving me a hug.
Radiation feels like an alien autopsy. I lie on a metal table, constrained by my own ghost, as the machine whirls around me, inspecting, dissecting.
What would men do if they bled to the point of severe anemia for 10 weeks straight?
The radiation made the bleeding worse. Everything is covered in blood. It doesn’t stop. I’m hemorrhaging. The doctors can’t stop it. I’m afraid this is how I will die. I imagine the toilet is my throne. Elvis went some version of this way; at least I’d be in good company.
Bloodletting was a medieval cure. Is this my way to health?
I met my tumor in a dream the other night. He emerged from underground in the depths of my subconscious - a man who looked like a beast, reddish to the point of no longer looking human, devoured by his anger. I now understand where unprocessed emotions go.
I don’t feel like myself. I haven’t put makeup on for weeks. My hair is a mess. I am rotating between three sweatsuits. The world feels a little hazy. It is difficult to move. I’ve lost muscle. But I find profound freedom that physical beauty doesn’t define me. I am more than my body. I don’t care for the first time in my life.
My acupuncturist explained the output of cancer treatments to me, “When an elephant dies, it contains enough gas that it could blow up a small village. You have a small elephant dying inside of you. We need to release the gas.”
Sugar and grains were the first things I cut. Yet, every doctor tells me to eat ice cream if I want it to keep my weight up. All I want is direction.
It’s a fascinating phenomenon to walk into a grocery store and realize almost everything in there could hurt you. I don’t want to live in fear.
I’ve gotten comfortable with feeling lightheaded. It’s like you turn up the saturation of the world. You see highlights only. It’s all white-washed, faded. Stars come in and out. I live in the space in between.
Chemo and radiation are controlled fires. I am burning everything that no longer serves me.
The chemo comes in a golden package. It is the next stage of my transmutation. Into what?
I feel immense gratitude for those supporting me through this. And sadness for those who suffer alone. How do I share the abundance of love?
I stopped by Midtown East, where I started my career in finance. Everyone is rushing. Everything is monotone. Everyone is chasing - what? Where is the joy? Life is too fleeting for this. I see a version of myself screaming.
My treatment started the day after Ash Wednesday. This cycle lasts throughout the duration of Lent. I lean into the symbolism. I enter the darkness, the wilderness.
The blood transfusions brought color back to my cheeks. I can do this.
Without the pauses, music is just noise. Without endings, nothing truly begins. Decay is the seed of life.